I Can't Escape This Now
by SWBloodwolf
Summary: 'Why do you come back here Sherlock? Everytime something goes wrong, when your exhausted or injured you come all the way back here. Why' Post-Reichenbach. Molly helps Sherlock on multiple occasions throughout the three long years of demolishing a network. Things have changed for the pathologist and the detective, a lot has changed. Defiantly whump and easily read as Sherlolly.
1. First

I.

Sherlock Holmes is a magician. Revealing such amazing and astounding things in a blink of an eye, but once slowed down and explained everything is clear and you wonder how the audience missed it.

Sherlock had just preformed his greatest trick yet, he vanished, disappeared from life supposedly into death. He had everyone fooled and wouldn't be revealing the finale until everything was set and he could come back.

Sherlock has everyone convinced, including John. Including the sniper set on John. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade; all convinced and saved. Sherlock must pay the price. In the long run; three years of hunting and loneliness, being dead to the world and cut off from everything warm and familiar. Now; the pain because such magic does not come without its cost and sacrifice.

So here is Molly Hooper; the assistant making the act convincing and the only one left knowing the truth. She sits in her flat, mourning a dead man who is very much still alive, asleep in her bed.

It wasn't easy, especially sitting there as he grunts and sweats in pain, the medicine not being strong enough and too soon to give him something more or different. She holds his bruised hand which she tells him to squeeze every time it hurts. Her hand has gone numb and will probably have its own bruises tomorrow. He grits his teeth and bites back most of the pain; Molly can't imagine how he has so much reserve. Eventually the tablets take some effect and he finally falls into an exhausted sleep, she slips her hand out from his loose grip and pulls up the duvet. His breathing comes in shallows rasps around the tightly bandaged broken ribs and she hates the thought of having to wake him up again to reset his dislocated shoulder, now that the medicine is helping to numb the pain.

Molly organises some things and fills up a glass of water to put on the bed side table, he grimaces in his sleep as every breath shakes his ripped shoulder.

Eventually, she can't put it off anymore. 'Sherlock', she says gently while rubbing his exposed arm. He groans in response.

'Come on, I need you to wake up,' Molly continues. 'I know you're tired but I need to set this shoulder.'

Sherlock's eyes blink open and he frowns for a moment, dazed, then nods.

'Sorry,' she says again. 'But this is going to hurt.'

'Can't get any worse,' he manages through a gritted smile. Molly smiles back as they both know it will. She pulls the duvet out of the way and lifts his left arm into place. He winces but nothing more. She takes a deep breath, hating to do this.

'Okay,' she starts, 'On the count of three.' He closes his eyes preparing for the on slaughter.

'One...' he takes a breath, 'two...' and just after two she does it with a sort of clunk as the joint shifts back into place, he cries out this time and she let's go of his hand as he reflexes pull it away.

'Shhh-shhh, it's alright. I'm sorry but I didn't want you to tense I-'

He has tears from unimaginable pain forming in the corners of his eyes.

'Breath in,' she starts and eventually he starts to copy her with shuddering breaths. 'And out. And in again.' They follow the pattern a few times until his forehead un-creases and the visible pain seems to subside a little.

'T'ank you,' He croaks.

She gives him a smile, 'Really I should bandage that now,' Molly begins but changes her mind when seeing his exhausted face as he closes his eyes once more. 'But I'll let you sleep a bit first.' He breathed a sigh of relief and muttered another small "thank you".

'Anytime, Sherlock.' She says in reply, tucking him in once more and leaving her room, grabbing a few things on the way out; preparing for a night on the couch.

Molly woke up the next morning, mindset in preparing for a normal day of work. At quarter to eight she received a call from Bart's, telling her that she had the next three days off "because, you know...what happened. You knew him, we're sorry Molly. See if you're ready to come back in about three days".

She put down the phone slowly. It was such a shock to realise she was meant to be grieving and immediately felt a pain of guilt. Molly instantly thought of how John would have woken up this morning, thinking for a few moments everything was fine and then slowly remembering and coming to the utter shock in realising that his best friend was dead. Actually, John probably hadn't slept at all. Probably didn't even go to bed, 'Oh John'. She felt herself whispering to the silent flat.

Molly felt horrible. _She _had woken up knowing that Sherlock wasn't dead, he was asleep in her bed. She ran her hands over her face and sighed, wondering what to possibly do with the damaged Sherlock in her bedroom, eventually deciding to be productive and to check on him.

Slowly creeping into the still dark room, Molly could hear the painful, sharp breaths of his sleep. As she moved passed him, she couldn't help but observe his pained expression and furrowed brows. Was he dreaming? Had he spent the night re-living his death over and over?

It was not cold and so she opened the window a crack to let some fresh air in then after grabbing a few items, silently left to have a shower.

She entered a bit later to find Sherlock curled onto his side and blinking in the dimness of the room.

'Oh,' she said startled by his vacant and pain filled gaze and unsure how else to announce her presence. 'Sorry. I didn't think you would wake up for a while yet.'

He gave no reply but watched her as she walked over and handed him the glass of water from the nightstand. He mumbled something before quickly downing the drink, obviously not realising how parched he had been. Sherlock gave a small hiss and shied away as Molly drew open the blinds and the morning sun lit the room with a soft illumination. She took the glass for a refill and returned with two more pills.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, 'They don't do anything.' He rubbed his eyes in exhausted frustration so she returned with something a bit stronger.

'You can't take too many of these, and you have to tell me if they make you feel nauseous.'

Sherlock nodded and downed the pills before gently leaning back against the headboard of her bed. He sighed and honestly she couldn't blame him, no doubt he was feeling completely overwhelmed by the sudden coarse his life had taken him and the damning fact of it all being necessary because it was worth it, they were all safe now, and soon they would always be. The faster Sherlock gets the job done, the quicker he can come back home, alive. But in the meantime, Sherlock had...her, probably his last choice.

'Do you want a shower? I'm sure still being covered in some blood isn't very pleasant.' Molly asked and Sherlock looked down at his beaten form before giving a small nod. She forced a small smile in return. This wasn't going to be fun, or easy.

'Right,' she started planning ahead. 'I'll get you a towel.' She set the bathroom up ready, also retrieving the first aid kit once more. On return to her room, Sherlock hadn't shifted.

He sat still for a moment before speaking, 'Maybe I should wait a bit longer for those painkillers too kick in before I try to move.' He was again grimacing in pain, obviously already having attempted and failed trying to get up on his own.

'Okay', Molly replied with a patient smile then began bustling about the room, starting to clean away a few of the things after having no time from the rushed night before. She picked up his bloody cloths and their eyes meet. She could see his look of longing; the attire was the last link to his old life.

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, 'Get rid of it.'

Molly felt upset but put the clothes in a black rubbish bag nonetheless, but with no intentions of throwing out Sherlock's clothes, the clothes that portrayed and complemented the man who wore them so well.

Sherlock finally swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. Stage one, now for stage two. Molly walked over and sat down next to him.

'Don't', she simply said before draping his arm over her shoulder and gingerly, being mindful of the ribs, put her other arm around his slim waist. Together they stood and Sherlock's eyes scrunched up and she grimaced in sympathy. The deep, dark bruising covering his body was enough of a display to show the pain he had, and was going through. Sherlock took another deep breath and together they began the short journey to the bathroom as Molly immaturely tried not to think of the proximity between them, with him only in black boxer briefs. She got him in so he was leaning against a wall as she produced a pair of men's dark pyjamas.

'These should hopefully fit', she said. 'And there's your towel', Molly paused for a moment, not wanting to leave him alone or if knowing if he wanted privacy.

He answered by giving her a blank look and Molly felt her cue to leave. She closed the bathroom door behind her just as the water started running before leaning against the wood, taking a calming breath. Its fine, he's going to be fine. It's all going to be fine.

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	2. Second

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II.

The shower was hot and painful, but exactly what he needed. Sherlock watched as the water travelling down the drain turned red, mixing with the dried blood from his body. He washed gingerly and got out quickly, taking deep breaths through the pain. He leaned over the sink and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and upon disbelief of what he was seeing looked up and stared in shock at his reflection.

He really did die and come back to life, his body proved it. Haggard, worn, purple with dark bruising that was scattered across his pale skin. One half of his body having clearly taken most of the impact as his left side of his face was badly bruised. Followed by a distorted black shoulder from being dislocated and a convoy of dark bruises ran down and across the left side of his broken ribs.

'But John's alive', was all he could think of. Sherlock slowly dried off and slipped on the pyjama bottoms Molly had provided, fitting reasonably well if he tied the draw string. Feeling incredibly tired, Sherlock slowly left the bathroom. Molly appeared with a slice of toast.

'Eat this,' she said.

He stopped and looked at her. 'Really don't feel like it now thanks.'

She shook her head. 'It's best that you have something in your stomach with all this medication your taking, believe me, I've done autopsies on this sort of thing.'

Sherlock sighed, 'In bed?' he asked, realising that standing was soon going to stop being an option.

Molly nodded happy and helped him back into her bed where he sat up and slowly ate the toast. Once finished (most of it) she, under the instructions of Sherlock, taped his broken ribs and dislocated shoulder with Sherlock practically falling asleep in the process.

Molly realised that she was going to have to go shopping. Leaving a note for Sherlock she said goodbye to Toby who replied with a disinterested purr.

After getting the usual food items she found herself buying a few items of men's clothing for Sherlock. Weighing between two sizes, she got both with a shrug and grabbed a few shirts and jumpers, knowing that his usual taste in clothing was going to have to change. Molly started to fret when she realised she had been gone for almost two hours and hastily, with arms full of shopping dumped everything in the back and drove home.

Upon entering her flat, she immediately felt that something was off, the flat had a too quite feeling and Toby did not greet her as usual.

Molly dumped the shopping and hurried to her bedroom, the sight she saw was not expected. Sherlock lay awake on his back, covered in sweat and clearly drained. Toby was curled up against his side, purring deeply as the detective lightly stroked the length of his back. Sherlock gave Molly a tired smile, 'Had a bit of a...moment, its fine now.'

Molly nodded, wanting to sink down to the ground in relief. 'Do you want some more painkillers?'

'No. Better not this time.' He flinched as he shifted his weight on the bed. Molly sighed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress.

'I wish I could do more for you.'

Sherlock shook his head quickly, 'You've already done enough Molly, more than I deserve...thank you.'

Molly felt a small blush in her cheeks and she looked away from his intense gaze.

'I would like to get up though. I can't stand lying in this bed much longer.'

'Alright,' she couldn't see any harm and wanted him to feel as comfortable as possible. She slowly helped him up with an annoyed hiss from Toby in objection to being moved. Together, they limped to the couch were Sherlock sat panting.

Molly eyed him worryingly, 'Maybe that wasn't a good idea.'

'No,' he replied sitting up straighter, 'it's alright.'

An awkward silence began to grow and Molly bit her lip. 'Hungry?' she asked already moving to the kitchen area. She got a grunt in reply as she began un-packing the shopping. 'Oh', she said remembering and gave him one of the bags, 'I got you some clothes.'

Sherlock opened his lent forward and slowly rummaged through the bag.

'I hope they fit. I really just ended up guessing your size.'

He wrinkled his nose at the style of clothing but gave Molly a reassuring smile, 'They should be fine.'

Molly, satisfied, went back to unpacking. 'I'm going to have some crumpets do you want some?'

'One,' Sherlock replied tiredly, knowing that he should eat.

'I'm making you two.' Molly stated with a sweet smile that made Sherlock huff.

'Can I borrow your laptop?'

Molly looked up from the toaster and retrieved it for him, turning it on and passing it over. Sherlock placed it in his lap.

'Oh no wait, its password prote-'

Sherlock quickly typed and was rewarded with the logged in chime. He gave a smirk and Molly pulled a face before retreating back to the cooking crumpets.

'Butter and honey?' Molly asked five minutes later, to which Sherlock merely grunted in reply. She carried over the plate of his crumpets, took away the laptop with an outraged cry from Sherlock and replaced it with the steaming, golden-brown crumpets. 'Now eat. I don't want you getting honey all over my keys.'

Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of "I wouldn't get honey all over...I'm not" something or other. Molly ignored his grumblings, instead focusing on her own crumpets. Sherlock eventually stated too, eating slowly. Molly naturally finished first and grabbed the laptop, having a few things to do herself. Sherlock finished one crumpet then gave up and lay down on the couch, already exhausted.

Molly got up and draped a blanket over the sleeping man with a sigh, 'What are you planning on doing Sherlock?'

Molly got a bit of the work done around the flat that she hadn't had time for in a while. Moving around the sleeping detective, she organised and cleaned and got a lot of back load of work down. Sherlock only stirred once with a small groan as he shifted in his sleep but other than that was dead to the world...well.

The time flew by once Molly had something productive to do and focus her energy on. Soon she found herself cooking pasta for dinner. Sick of the hours of silence she turned the TV on, flicking through the channels, avoiding the majority that concerned 'Fake genius' suicide' headline and settled for a re-run of Friends. Sherlock conveniently woke just as the pasta was finishing, outside a storm raged.

Sherlock sat up stiffly, ribs aching, shoulder burning, head throbbing and pretty much feeling like one giant bruise. He accepted the bowl of pasta Molly proffered. _At least he's eating_, Molly thought sitting down next to him on the couch, curling up to watch the rest of Friends.

'How do you feel?' she asked for what felt like the millionth time.

'Like a wreck,' he replied. He put down his mostly empty bowl on the coffee table and sat up perfectly straight with strain, eyes closed. Molly watched as his eyes danced beneath the dark ringed lids. He appeared to be organising, planning. Molly was surprised at how quick he was moving, planning for god knows what. She was amazed at his confidence in his new situation. How do you go about pretending to be dead while destroying a criminal network? But this was Sherlock; he most probably knew what he was doing. She turned from and the time passed as she watched telly while he organised and planned. She eventually elicited a response when she brought him a cup of tea. He opened his tired eyes and sipped, sinking heavily into the sofa, clearly summarising over all he had just considered. Molly eventually gave up on the television and Sherlock, instead getting ready for bed. She came out into her room, only to find Sherlock sitting up shirtless in bed, all bruising and damage in clear display.

'Molly,' he said.

'Hmmm?'

'Don't sleep on the couch. You don't have to put yourself out and I now know how uncomfortable it is. There's plenty of room in your bed. It would be ridiculous for one to not take advantage of it.'

'Molly stiffened at the unexpected reply and tried hard not to show her embarrassment at the self-conscious situation.

'It's fine really,' she assured. 'Besides its quite comfortable if you're not six-foot something or heavily injured.' She smiled, Sherlock didn't.

'Please don't hesitate if you change your mind.' He replied, not pressing the matter further and slipping down under the covers to sleep.

Molly bit her lip at the now positively awkward position she was in. Had he insisted further, she would have given in. Although not bad for one night, Molly was dreading sleeping on the couch again. She did a small dance in frustration before padding over and hopping in bed next to Sherlock. She lay on her side trying to relax her stiff body and not think of the little gap between their two bodies.

'Thank you, Molly,' Sherlock's deep baritone echoed in the darkened room.

Molly wasn't sure if he was thanking her for her help or for doing as he had asked. She had a feeling it was the latter. He was dead and lonely. John Watson had changed him so much.

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	3. Third

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III

Days passed. One of which was Sherlock's funeral. Sherlock was quiet and busy, pouring his attention around the internet and documents that had mysteriously appeared in a black suitcase at the door.

Molly had cried at the funeral and had lied to everyone. It killed her with every condolence to John. The others were devastated by John was destroyed.

'If you ever need anything, anything at all, you've got me.' She realised she was repeating herself. Also realising that she regretted saying those words the first time around. How much she wanted to change places with John. He be the one secretly knowing that his best friend was alive as she grieved and cried. Sherlock was a part of her life, but for John, he was his life.

Molly came home feeling drained and lost. She entered the flat and Sherlock looked up. She went to walk but suddenly found herself restrained to the spot and completely overwhelmed. She wiped her eyes and felt something warm on her shoulder. Looking down, she saw a hand and followed it up to Sherlock who was standing in front of her, face blank. She went to say something but abruptly found herself unable to do so. Sherlock suddenly pulled her forward, Molly felt herself being hugged tightly to his chest, with her hands clenched into fists and trapped between their bodies. She finally broke and leaned into him, sobbing quietly as he held her, chin resting on her bowed head. She wasn't exactly sure why she was crying but now found she couldn't stop.

Soon Molly had to go back to work again. As she was heading out the door, she looked back to Sherlock who was sitting at the kitchen counter with tea and the newspaper.

Molly hesitated at the domestic of it. 'See you later Sherlock,' she rushed.

He looked up and gave a soft smile. 'Goodbye Molly and thank you.'

Molly thought nothing into it and left but when she came home in the evening, Sherlock was long gone. A note with a large bundle of cash was left with instructions. Molly sat where he had sat that morning against the counter and broke down.

Quite a few months later, she woke up to a Sherlock on her couch. He was thinner and blonde. Molly was so shocked she just went to have a shower. He was making coffee when she got out and so she sat across from him as he slumped down onto the bar stool and sipped from his steaming mug. They talked about anything but what he was doing, as if such a meeting was commonplace. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to all Molly had to say. When he opened them again they were glistening with emotion.

'How long will you be staying?' she asked him when nothing else was left to be said.

He sighed, 'Not long.' With that Sherlock moved over to her bookshelf and produced a hidden key. He honestly looked like he was already leaving.

'Please stay!' Molly begged, God how she missed him.

He shook his head with a sad smile, 'Sorry.' Then grabbed his battered jacket and headed for the door. Molly raced to intercept him and before he got a chance to do anything else she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. He bent down and squeezed back.

'Be careful.' She whispered so quietly and didn't think it possible he heard her, but of course, he did.

'I'll try,' he replied before pulling away and leaving through the door. Molly fought so hard not to follow and stay where she was.

The next time he showed up was in the middle of dinner. Molly heard something scratching at her front door; she looked around to see Toby curled up on the kitchen counter, head also attentive to the noise. Molly quickly walked over and quickly flung it open to reveal a man bent down holding what appeared to be some sort of pick-locking instruments. No, not a man; Sherlock. God, he looked like shit. He stayed still there for a moment then put his hands into his pockets. 'Can I come in?'

Without a seconds delay Molly pulled him across the threshold and sat him down on the couch. He was bruised, dirty and now a closed cropped ginger.

'What happened? Are you okay?'

'I didn't know where else to go,' he replied apologetically.

Molly began taking off his coat and shoes as he finally leaned back against the couch. She made him a cup of tea and rummaged through the fridge to find something for him to eat. After some food was heated she handed it to the worn detective, 'Eat that. You're disturbingly thin.'

Sherlock needed more prompting though as he began to wolf down the bowl and scraping the remnants from the empty bowl. He finished the tea and sunk sideways onto the sofa with a wince.

'You're good at stitching up bodies.' It wasn't a question.

'What have you done?' Molly asked, groaning with the thought of having to stitch up Sherlock Holmes again. He sat forward in reply and gingerly pulled off his jumper and the long sleeve underneath it. His body was smattered with bruises and ribs that protruded dangerously. There was a long deep slash from the centre of his chest to the bottom of his ribs. It was already begging to ooze blood again. Being a pathologist, Molly knew it was from a knife, she said this and Sherlock smiled in what could be interpreted as pride at her knowledge.

She sighed and led him through to the bathroom, 'Come'on. I'll clean that up.' He didn't let go of her hand.

The next morning Molly woke up to Sherlock's back. After cleaning and stitching the knife wound, Sherlock soon collapsed into Molly's bed with some strong painkillers and antibiotics to fight and already growing infection in the slash. After cleaning everything up and cereal for her dinner (as Sherlock had eaten hers), Molly eventually sank into bed after he exhausting day that had become that much more trying.

Now Molly watched the tidal movement his body made with every breath and absently stroked Toby as she turned and stared at the far wall, lost in thought. Eventually Molly sighed, returning back to reality and Sherlock's peaceful, sleeping form. She tutted at the exposed visible ribs before pulling the duvet up past his shoulders, slipping slowly out of her bed to not disturb the exhausted dead man in her bed. Upon returning from the shower and breakfast, Molly found Sherlock still dead to the world (no pun intended), but with a purring, sleeping cat curled up against his chest. Toby had probably nudged his way into the sleepy figure's arms, wanting some of the warmth the detective was producing. Neither seemed like they were going to wake anytime soon and so Molly left a glass of water and some medicine for when Sherlock woke up. She continued with all her plans for the day off as normal and was not disturbed until two in the afternoon by some thudding emanating from her room. It took Molly a few seconds to figure out what could be causing the racket but quickly got up and raced to the bathroom when she realised that Sherlock could have hurt himself. She flung open the door but only Toby sleepily blinked up to her from the disarrayed bed covers. Molly panicked a little, immediately thinking that somehow Sherlock had left again without her noticing. However she soon heard the flush of the toilet and calmed down. Picking up Toby she headed out to the kitchen, setting him down on the ground as he had a much longer sleep in her bed than usual. Turning on the kettle she got out two mugs, somehow knowing that Sherlock would soon appear. She was correct as a bleary eyed and pale Sherlock slowly emerged into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the wall for support. No doubt had tripped and stumbled the whole into the bathroom early. She ignore him and put teabags in the mugs and again noticing his much too skinny frame, got out some microwave lasagna and began to heat it up following the instructions. By then the kettle had boiled and she poured the hot water into the mugs. Meanwhile, Sherlock had slowly made his way to the couch and sat down with a grunt. Molly wasn't sure why she was acting as she was, perhaps because the situation wasn't new to her and it was beginning to become a common reoccurrence, for Sherlock too, as he was clearly accustomed to the way of her flat and routine. The microwave gave a permeating ding. Molly removed the steamy pack with a wave of steam. She grabbed a knife and fork and deposited the meal onto the lap of the former detective.

'Eat all of it and I'll be happy,' although admittedly there was a lot for one person. Sherlock didn't reply and merely picked up the fork and slowly began to eat. Molly went back to the kitchen, finished the cups of tea and placed the second on the coffee table in front of Sherlock who had yet to look up from the meal.

'You're welcome,' she said a bit sarcastically and immediately felt terrible for it. But this was a new Molly, and she wasn't going to apologise, yet. So instead she bit her lip and pulled her soft throw over herself, pressing play to continue the movie she had been watching before Sherlock had woken up.

Sherlock had finished more than half of the lasagna which Molly was secretly happy with as it was clear he had really tried to eat it all for her. Now both were sipping their teas and Molly eventually shifted over a bit on the couch and shared the blanket between them. The heat that their two bodies generated underneath was incredibly comfortable and soon Molly found herself relaxing and ignoring her world in exchange for the films.

It wasn't until seven months later that Molly heard from Sherlock again. She wasn't sure what had woken her but when she did; her bleary eyes were drawn to a light coming from the direction of the adjoining bathroom. Toby was sitting in front of said door, crying in that concerned way that cats' do. However it was the sob and the groan that found Molly out of her bed and rushing to the bathroom. She wasn't all that surprised to find Sherlock Holmes in her bathroom, admittedly she already half knew. She was more surprised by that fact that he had obviously come through the window, despite his terrible state. There were no obvious, heavily bleeding wounds visible on him but he was covered in deep dark bruises and had some poorly wrapped strips of what use to be his shirt strapped around his chest.

Sherlock did not look up at Molly, instead continuing to stare into her sink as he heavily leaned on it.

'If you're going to throw up, I'd prefer it to be in the toilet or a bucket.'

Sherlock finally looked up at her, all pale and worn. Eyes dull with exhaustion, hair long and rugged yet he smiled and gave a small shrug.

'Nothing to throw up.'

And he was right. He was nothing but skin and bones, looking as if he had recently been very ill. Molly sighed, she would have to try to feed him up again before he left.

She walked up behind him and began to unwind the rough, makeshift bandages. Underneath was a deep and ugly scar but also a dark angry-looking bruise that surrounded a welt and a swollen protruding rib. Molly touched the area gingerly and Sherlock hissed. Reaching passed him she grabbed a flannel and after soaking it, began to wash the area, she wasn't sure why.

'Look at you. You're a mess.'

And he did, Sherlock lifted his head and stared at the face looking back at him in the mirror, he hardly recognised himself.

'I'm sorry Molly.'

Molly chucked the flannel into the washing pile and expertly inspected his side once more.

'Don't say you're sorry to me, as long as you're still alive.' She moved to grab out some bandages until he stopped her.

'It's fine. The side just needed support for the climb up here.'

She frowned, 'It's called a door. Besides, you have cracked ribs Sherlock, they need looking after.'

He shrugged and finally pushed off the sink to stand up straight, 'I've had worse.'

Molly knows, she was there. Instead she grabbed out a towel and threw it at him. 'Have a shower, you stink. Then I'll make you something to eat and then you can sleep if you want.'

Sherlock gave a tired smile of gratitude then leaned forward, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. 'Thank you Molly Hooper.'

Once upon a time, Molly would have blushed and flustered, now she stepped forward and wrapped her arms carefully around his middle. Burying her face in his chest, concerned for his safety, but so glad he was alive. Sherlock returned the hug; obviously he hated all of this as much as she did.

Molly pulled away first and left him to make something in the kitchen at god knows what hour in the morning.

Sherlock stayed for a week, mostly eating and sleeping but honestly Molly was glad she didn't have to force him to look after himself. For the next month, the image of his starved body, leaning against her sink as he dry heaved plagued her mind for a month. She found herself worrying about him constantly.

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	4. Fourth

**Notes:**

**I don't know why a few people convey Molly as someone whose not that well off. I mean, she's a pathologist, she's doing a lot better then just getting by. Probably is a lot better off then sherlock and john! just saying; its something i've read in other fics and it annoys me.**

**Anyway! Moving on to all the awesome people who fav/alerted the story and me;**

Reader's Delight, mrsmuchmore, Crazyvet80, goldenrose72, galaapple12, NZcalling, crooney83, Lodiel,Aeryn LaChelle and Bawmi **all your support is so astounding.**

**And to my lovely reviewers; **

crooney83 **(thank you so much for loving it, here's some more), **Brightpath2 **(he doesn't know what he's doing, thank you so much for getting so into it), **galaapple12 **(so pleased your enjoying reading this. The wait is over!), **LavenderExtract **(thanks again for that. Anymore you spot please tell me) and **guest **(i will carry on, here's a bit more!)**

**Here we go again guys!**

**Feel free to check in on my other story; Yin Yang if you like.**

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IV.

Molly sobbed as she walked to the door of her flat. She had been so hopeful, but had been wrong, again. She sure knew how to pick them. She shook her head at her own foolishness and told herself to stop sobbing; it wasn't nearly worth crying over. She wiped her eyes in a cleansing sort of way, determined to never think of it again.

She wasn't upset about being stood up by the date as much as she was angry at herself for having hope and excitement that a good-looking, amazing guy would be interested in no-fashion-sense-weird-interests-and-job-Molly.

It was only after standing at the door for a few minutes with key still poised near the lock when she realised the small light filtering with a delicious smell from behind her front door. She immediately forgot about the night and hurried to get inside, hastily kicked of her shoes in the front entrance, noticing the extra worn pair as she bent down to scratch Toby's chin upon his greeting to her at the door.

The amazing smell grew stronger as she made her way into the kitchen. And there he was.

A smile leapt onto Molly's face at the sight of him, having not seen said man for a good seven months. She wasn't sure whether it was due to the horrible night or just the surprise of seeing him, but Molly found herself running over and wrapping her arms around the slim waist in front of the oven, hugging him from behind.

Sherlock ceased stirring the substance in the pot in the clumsy-like way that only men have, turning around to wrap his arms around Molly properly.

'Hello,' he said in that deep baritone.

'Hello,' she replied, so grateful that he was here, safe in front of her, hugging her.

'Nice dress.'

She replied with a slap to his arm, 'Seven months Sherlock! Seven!'

He gave what could be translated as an apologetic smile in return. 'Yes, well at least I'm not bleeding everywhere this time.'

It was true, Molly realised taking a step back from the man. He didn't seem to be injured but in fact looked quite healthy, almost his normal self, pre-death.

He had gained back weight and what appeared to be a bit of added muscle from what Molly could see from his rolled up sleeves. Sherlock seemed genuinely happy and smiled to himself as he stirred the contents in the pot on the stove.

She frowned at the mixture. 'What are you making?' she asked before retrieving a drink from the fridge and leaning against the countertop, watching Sherlock's efficient, scientific stirring of the substance.

'Gravy,' he replied whacking the wooden spoon free of dark brown drips and balancing it across the small saucepan.

'Oh,' she nodded knowingly but then frowned. 'For what?' but soon got her answer as Sherlock opened the oven door and a delicious smell penetrated her nose.

'Is that, is that my pork?!'

Sherlock didn't reply, removing the baking dish with said pork sitting in the middle and surrounded by roast vegetables.

'It's good you've got all dressed up for dinner Molly.' He gave her a short sideways glance and Molly saw that he had already deduced everything about her in the last few months _and_ her failed date from a an hour ago. However, there was no mocking, he remained silent.

'Plates?' he asked as he fished out the small roll of pork onto her wooden chopping board while Molly got the cutlery.

'I got you a present,' he said after a disturbingly good Sherlock-cooked dinner.

'You what?' Molly was unprepared, already bewildered by the surprisingly lovely night she had and thinking how she could have missed all of it, had her date shown up.

Sherlock smiled? and got up from the table, over to the couch were a ragged black rack-sac sat. He carried the bag over and pulled out a laptop, then proceeded to search though its contents.

He eventually seemed to find what he was searching for. 'Here,' he said, presenting her with a slightly crumpled box.

'Sherlock I-'

'Molly,' he interrupted holding up hand. 'Thank you,' he said. 'A few times I have required your help which you have provided; unquestionably and without wavering. None of the times have I had the chance or thought to actually provide an adequate thank you. It is because of you I am alive, and you have also quite literally kept me alive, both physically and mentally over the last couple of months.' His hands clenched and unclenched uncomfortably by his sides.

Molly smiled, not just at his words but out how hard Sherlock was finding this to confess.

'I saw it and, I wanted you to have it. I'm not sure why.' He huffed in such a confused, childish manner.

Molly took this as a cue to unwrap her present. She pulled off the battered lid and couldn't help but gasp. 'Oh Sherlock!'

Sitting in a ripped-up shirt and a fluff of feathers sat a perfectly smooth, large and creamy white ostrich egg.

Molly looked up to Sherlock who was frowning. 'Why did I get that for you?'

She laughed, standing and reaching up on tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. 'Because I love it!'

Sherlock seemed to relax although now was flustered from the unexpected kiss.

'You have no idea how hard that was to get back here whole.'

Molly giggled this time at his exasperated expression, carefully extracting the egg from its nest to examine it all over. It was flawless, smooth, cold and shinning mystically in the light.

'How do they do it?' Molly muttered astounding as she delicately turned the large oval object over in her hands. Sherlock merely hummed in reply and sat down on the edge of the couch. Molly put the egg back for now and smiled down at him.

'Thank you Sherlock.'

He laughed at that. 'The whole point of this is that I'm the one who's trying to thank you.'

Molly's eyes widened as she looked at the table where the remnants of dinner lay. 'Is this what the evening was about?'

Sherlock ducked his head slightly but then nodded.

'And my date not showing up, did you have something to do with that too?'

Sherlock nodded again.

'Sherlock!' Molly couldn't believe him, and for a moment she had thought and actually believed he-ugh!

'He was pathetic Molly!' Sherlock interjected, defensive but apologetic. 'He wouldn't have been good for you.'

Molly couldn't believe what she was hearing. 'And how do you know what's good for _me_, Sherlock Holmes?' She was furious with him, of all the hurtful things he'd done, this was perhaps the worst.

Sherlock's mouth changed in disgust. 'He was married Molly. You were only ever going to see him for one night, even less if you weren't going to give him what he wanted.' Sherlock looked down.

The one thing Molly never doubted was Sherlock's deductions. She took a deep breath and placed her hands on top of his. He _had_ been trying to actually be kind and caring.

'Thank you for tonight. I had a lovely time.'

Sherlock didn't give any acknowledgement he heard her, just looked back to the dinner table. 'I guess I better clean up as well.'

Molly shook her head. 'You've done enough and you're exhausted. Its fine, I'll clean up. It was just nice not having to cook dinner.'

That produced a small smirk from Sherlock. 'Are you sure?' he asked but Molly nodded. Although a looking physically a lot better, Molly could clearly see Sherlock was exhausted. He had been to hiding it all night, but now Molly saw. And god knows how long he had spent around London to follow Molly and stalk her was-to-be-date.

She patted his hair. 'I'll get out of this dress first. Don't want to ruin it.' She left to have a shower and change into her pyjamas. Sherlock was asleep on the couch when she came back out to do the dishes. Molly loaded the dishwasher and then cleaned up the dining table and kitchen, only to finally coax a half-awake Sherlock into bed. The lights were already off when she slowly slipped in beside him and turned over to face his shape in the dark.

'Sherlock?' But by the sound of his even breathing, she guessed he was already asleep.

* * *

Five months later Molly entered her flat to an almost naked Sherlock laid out on her couch. His arm was dramatically flung over his eyes with the other hand resting gently on his bare stomach. He was thinner but mad up for it in whipcord muscle.

She closed the door and dumped her bag on the counter, waking Sherlock with the noise.

'Molly. Sorry I was ahhh,' he pulled the towel higher up around his waist and carefully sat up into a more dignified position. 'I really had to put a load of washing on. I was hoping I would have clothes on before you got home.'

She determinedly looked only at his face. 'It's fine,' she said and turned away feeling annoyed for being embarrassed. Why was she embarrassed? She shared a bed and stitched up a mostly naked on a number of occasions now.

'How long are you staying?' she asked looking through the fridge, wondering if she should restock.

Sherlock lazily shrugged his shoulders. 'A week?'

The beeping of the finish load of washing sounded and both looked towards the laundry. Sherlock stiffly stood, and holding the towel in place, strode to get the washing out of the machine and into the drier.

Molly stuttered, 'What's that?!'

Sherlock turned looking puzzled, 'Hmm?'

She pointed to his shoulder. 'What happened to your shoulder?'

A look of clarity appeared on his face and he strained to examine the back of his scapula. 'Oh that!' he gave a dismissive gesture. 'Got shot by a crossbow.' Sherlock smiled innocently at Molly's shocked expression.

'Let me look.' Sherlock shifted uneasily.

'Can I put some pants on first?'

Molly was taken aback by Sherlock's sudden found modesty. 'What are you hiding?'

Sherlock eyes briefly darted to the side, 'Nothing.'

Molly crossed her arms over her chest. 'Sherlock...'

Sherlock broke eye contact first and with a sigh shifted the towel to reveal a swollen, black knee.

Molly closed her eyes briefly. 'And what happened there?'

He shrugged this time. 'I fell unconscious. Not sure, possibly had something to do with a crowbar.'

Now Molly placed her head in her hand and with the other pointed towards the couch. 'Go sit down you idiot.'

He hesitated but then complied, this time not trying to hide his obvious limp. Molly left to transfer his wet clothes to the drier, trying not to think too much about the assortment of clothes. Sherlock was on his laptop when she came back, intently reading an official looking document. Molly walked up behind him and gently began examining his shoulder first.

'What are you-?'

'Oh hush,' she interrupted as she analysed for any problems at the site. 'Who stitched this up?' she asked noting the professional job of the stitching.

'A vet in Russia, who found me down a snowed alley.'

Molly squinted at the recently healed wound. 'This will scar badly. Does it hurt in any way?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'It burns from time to time but I put that down to overuse. I still struggle a bit to lift heavy things. Also a real hassle when you have to shot someone with a rifle.'

Molly paused at his words and subconsciously took her hands away. She had a vague idea of what Sherlock was doing in his months away but she forgot the other half of it. Sherlock had killed people. Hunted them down and removed them, he was a killer. The man who would someday return to John Watson would be changed.

She resisted the urge to run her hands up his long neck and into his short curls, he was vulnerable where he sat with her behind and he was fine with it. She forced herself away, heading into the kitchen area.

'Tea?'

He shook his head without looking up from the screen. 'Just had one thanks.'

Tea was drunk, research into the world criminal society silently continued and soon Sherlock's clothes were done.

Molly dropped a small basket of clean clothes at his bare feet. 'Chose what you want to wear and I'll iron them first.'

Sherlock leaned forward. Shifting through the clothes and pulling out a pair of tracksuits and a dark blue, long-sleeved. Belatedly diving back in to grab a pair of pants before Molly took the basket away to iron the meagre pile of clothing.

'You've bulked up,' she admitted to noticing as he carefully pulled the deep blue shirt over his head, slowly coordinating his bad arm through the tunnel of the sleeve. Sherlock only grunted in reply but it was true. Running around, fighting criminals will do that to you. He was still the slim figure, but with more defined muscles that rippled under the skin.

The week was uneventful, finishing with Sherlock leaving in the dark of a morning. Black rack-sac on one shoulder and disguised gun bag on the other he bent down and placed a kiss on Molly's sleeping forehead before quietly leaving out the front door for another eight months.

* * *

**Love to hear your thoughts**

**anything you want to see happen to Sherlock/ a certain ailment or something, feel free to leave a review or PM me =)**


	5. Fifth

**Notes:**

**Thanks to all who fav/alerted, your interest is comforting: **LadyCrow1313, Meduimaane, Angaranhad, G.M. Lloyd, cim902, princessamina 223, SuperWhoLockian75 and AdaYuki.

**Special thanks to all those who reviewed: **a-lonesome-human, Brightpath2, NZcalling, mrsmuchmore **(one day late sorry, but my other fic needed desperate attention) **and AdaYuki

* * *

v.

Molly was turning off the lights of her office while shrugging her bag higher onto her shoulder when she saw him; behind the work benches Sherlock sat, sagged against the wall. She paused, shocked to even see him here.

Molly looked around to confirm she was alone before slowly making here way over to him.

'Sherlock?' she asked uncertainly. Surely she was imaging things, what was he doing here?! Someone could see him. Molly crouched down in front of the still form. She dropped her bags and gingerly put a hand to his cheek. He woke with a start, eyes wild. Before she had time to react he grabbed her wrist and had her arm twisted behind her back. He spun her around, slamming her against the benches and pinning her there with such a force.

Molly gasped, it had only happened in a matter of seconds. What had become of Sherlock that this was his first defense? ready to kill or be killed at any moment.

She felt his tight grip on her loosen.

'Molly?'

She slowly turned her face around to him, his mouth hung open gasping and in shock.

'God Molly I'm-'

Before he finished he hid his eyes behind his hands, sinking down on the cold, sterile floor of the lab. Molly shuffled closer and pulled him into a hug. She stroked his filthy hair and made calming noises as she held him tightly to her. Sherlock's whole body trembled as she held him, and it terrified her.

He suddenly pulled away placing his hands on either side of her face. His eyes screamed pain and confusion and Molly realised that he was more upset than her.

'Did I hurt you?'

She shook her head with a tight smile. 'No, you just gave me one hell of a fright.'

Sherlock gave a shudder and dropped his hands as if he had no energy left in the world.

Molly stared at him. His cheeks were hollow in an unhealthy way and dark smudges beneath his eyes created a stark contrast with his pale face. His hair was long and dark, a layer of sweat covered his skin.

'What happened?' she finally asked. 'Why are you here?'

He looked confused and half awake. 'I couldn't make it to the flat.'

Molly hummed in concern and pushed the long hair from his face. He felt hot. 'Okay,' she said and helped him up, picking up her bags and wrapping her free arm around his waist. She tried to ignore the prominent feeling of bones beneath his worn clothing, instead concentrating on keeping him balanced.

They stumbled their way to the back exit. It was dark and freezing outside, the breaths given shape in the frigid air. Molly lent Sherlock against a wall as she searched her bags for the car keys.

'Stay here,' she told him. 'I'll bring the car closer.'

Sherlock's response was to slump further down the wall. Molly quickly headed down the alley and around the corner to the back where her car was parked when someone grabbed her arm from behind.

'Sher-', but it wasn't Sherlock. This man was tall and thick. With a crocked nose and strong jaw that was covered in unshaved gristle.

Molly tried to yank her wrist free. 'Let me go!'

The man just smiled and pulled her closer. 'Hey Jock!'

Another man appeared, this one also tall but slime with a rat like face and flashy yellow teeth.

'Look what I found.' The first man squeezed Molly's wrist until she gasped in pain and dropped the car keys. "Jock" sauntered closer, followed by a third darker toned man.

'Well, well,' Jock said circling Molly, pulling out her hair which he sniffed and made a pleasing noise. 'We've caught a little mouse.'

All three laughed and Molly struggled, kicking out at her assailants who jumped back in mock fear which caused another round of laughter.

'You're scaring her Jock.' The first one said, grabbing Molly's chin and forcing her to look up. 'Cute little mouse.'

Molly felt herself really panic now and tried to get free, but one of the others grabbed her from behind, her car keys forgotten now.

She caught one of the leering men on the shin; the guy swore and yanked at her hair.

'Why you little-'

At that moment the man fell as his knee was kicked out from underneath him. Another kick to the back sent him flying forward onto the damp tarmac. One of the other members shuffled back from the sudden danger , using Molly as a shield between him and the invisible attack.

He appeared at the right now, grabbing the man's arm that was holding Molly by the wrist and twisting until a crack was heard. The man yelled and let go of his grip around Molly's neck. She stumbled forward gasping for breaths before turning to watch in disbelief as Sherlock continued to take care of her three attackers. The one before on the ground was back up, throwing punches at Sherlock who easily blocked them, who then delivered a series of hits himself, re-breaking the man's nose and knocking him out to the ground. Rat Face kicked at Sherlock from behind as the third advanced from the front. Sherlock blocked the oncoming punches but the kick had him on the ground. Just before Molly was going to rush forward in to try and somehow help, Sherlock rolled to the side and up onto a knee, catching a foot previously sailing towards his face and twisted it sideways as he stood up. The man slammed to the ground with an agonised scream, holding his injured leg.

The last man fumbled as he pulled out a gun. Sherlock ducked and knocked the gun aside in a sudden flick. The gun was somehow materialised into Sherlock's hand, cocked and pointing directly into the whimpering man's face.

Sherlock's own face was devoid of emotion. He hesitated and looked as if he was about to fire when Molly rushed forward.

'NO!'

Sherlock flinched, glancing at Molly but not moving the gun an inch.

'What are you doing?!'

Sherlock didn't respond, but eventually lowered the weapon. The man let out a sigh of relief and opened his mouth to give a retort, Sherlock flipped the gun and pistol whipped him before he got a chance. The man crumbled and Sherlock dumped the gun on top of the unconscious figure, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, almost in a disgusted way.

Molly stood, listening to Sherlock's heavy breathing, watching as he bent down and picked up Molly's keys.

She looked around then picked up her bags, shocked by how quickly it had all began and ended. Quickly once more, she grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the car where he collapsed once inside, Molly quickly drove away from the scene.

His heavy breathing filled the car as he sank lower into the seat. 'Really didn't need that.' He said with closed eyes. 'Are you alright?'

Molly briskly nodded, not taking her eyes off the road as she tried to get home as fast as possible.

Nothing else was said between the two. Molly put on a brave face and was determined to not cancel on a night out with her friends. She came back earlier than later to a dark flat. She was almost upset to see that Sherlock was still there. She watched his sleeping form, finally admitting to herself that she was now scared of him. She lay beside him, as far away as possible and as she listened to his laboured breathing in the pitch black room, Molly realised she no longer knew the man who was sleeping beside her.

* * *

The light turned on with a click and Molly squeezed her eyes shut from the pain of the sudden brightness in the before dark room.

Sherlock moaned again. Molly threw back the too hot covers and squirmed over to the wall that was his back. His side of the bed was soaked wet along with his old t-shirt. As she shifted closer to him, Molly felt where the immense flush of heat was coming from.

Upon seeing his face she forgot everything that had happened early that evening and carefully lent over him. 'Sherlock?'

His face shined with sweat and scrunched up with pain. He had wrapped his hands in bandages from the fight but his face had a large bruise forming. She carefully rolled him onto his back during which he gave a heart wrenching whimper.

'Shhh, it's alright.' She whispered while pushing his damp hair from his face. 'It's alright Sherlock, wake up.' But it wasn't alright; he was far too hot and seemed to have trouble breathing.

His eyes fluttered and Molly's hands fell to his shoulders.

'J'hn,' it was muttered with pain and Molly leaped off the bed. Hurrying to the bathroom where she got a thermometer, a bowl of cool water and flannel.

She gently slapped is face, 'Come on Sherlock. You need to wake up now.' Eventually he woke, staring at Molly; confused and exhausted.

'Thermometer, Sherlock.' She said passing it over which he placed under his arm as his mouth was occupied in trying to bring in more oxygen. 'Just stay awake for a minute.'

One of his hands floundered in front of her and she grabbed it, he squeezed it now and then. Finally the thermometer beeped, 39.1. _Shit, _Molly thought and quickly placed the damp flannel on his forehead while continuing to try and keep him awake.

'Sherlock, you have a temperature. Can you think as to any reason why?'

Sherlock nodded weakly, eyes closed but still awake. 'Got trapped,' he muttered.

Molly made what she hoped where comforting circles with her thumb on the top of his hand. 'Got trapped where?'

Sherlock coughed and Molly could feel his whole body quiver.

'In cell. Got left...for days.' He said between gasping breaths, trying to get some air back into his lungs.

Molly continued to draw patterns on his hand, more to keep her calm if anything but he seemed to be enjoying the sensation. 'Okay. Was it cold in the cell, damp?'

Sherlock nodded, probably both.

'Where you cold?'

He shivered at this, as if remembering, 'So cold.'

Molly bit her lip at his pain and leaned down to hug him before moving to lie down next to him. He was too thin. 'Were you hungry,' bit of a stupid question really. He didn't answer immediately, but eventually gave what she translated as a confirming groan.

'Sherlock,' she was scared to ask. 'How long were you stuck in the cell?'

He frowned, obviously trying to figure it out. 'Nine days.'

Molly ran her hands through her hair. 'Have you eaten since?'

'Yes,' he replied almost defensively.

'What?' she challenged.

He sighed then gave a sort of shrug. 'Not much.'

'Sherlo-'

'I felt sick!' he interrupted before sighing and whispering as if scared. 'I still feel sick.'

_You look sick_, she thought, sitting up to refresh the flannel. 'And yet you took on three big guys.'

He snorted at that, finally opening his eyes. 'They were pathetic,' he said with a small roll of his eyes but then looked angry. 'They were going to hurt you.' His fists clenched and Molly could see how livid that thought made him. She smiled though, at his show of protectiveness. 'They didn't, though,' she replied. 'Thanks to you,' she leant over him, placing a soft kiss on his forehead before replacing the re-cooled cloth.

* * *

The fever came down the next day sometime after lunch. She relocated him to the couch where he collapsed exhausted with another fit of coughing. The spouts were becoming worse.

'Can I have a shower?' he asked quite pathetically after taking a nap. 'I feel disgusting.'

He looked terrible too. Molly nodded and helped him to the bathroom, sitting him on the closed toilet lid as she adjusted the water, hand under the spray. 'Luke-warm, I don't want to encourage that fever back.' Sherlock huffed but didn't dispute it. He struggled in removing his top and Molly helped it the rest of the way over his head. Some of the gained muscle from last time was gone, no doubt from the nine days in captivity and the stretch afterwards when he was unwell. His trousers were dangerously close to slipping down completely.

Molly frowned at the key around his neck. 'What's with the necklace?'

Sherlock looked down at his bare chest where a key dangled on a chain. He took the object in his hand, frowning as if the answer should be obvious. 'It's the key to 221B Baker Street. I-I almost lost it.'

Molly looked up at him from the floor where she was now tugging of his socks and worn black trousers. She was surprised at the obvious symbolism of the object, as to why Sherlock kept it so close to him. It was home. Reminding him of what he had left and what was waiting for him when he returned. For Sherlock, 221B is more than his home.

Molly rose, leaving him to remove his pants. He didn't care, but she did. 'Get in the shower. I'll get your spare clothes.' With that she left and closed the door to the steamy white room, trying not to linger on the image of Sherlock sitting there; broken and worn.

Molly heated up some soup to the soundtrack of Sherlock's deep coughing, the coarse kind that came from the chest and vibrated your whole body in a painful way, leaving your chest feeling tight and sore.

Sherlock appeared, stumbling to the couch. Hair still damp, the key dangling with every step. He held a hand to his bare chest, wincing as he coughed again. Molly gave him the soup and could see him really wanting it, and knowing he should eat it but feeling nauseas from just the smell alone.

'Please try.' Molly encouraged. He took a spoonful, then after a taste, dropped the spoon and picked up the bowl. Sipping from it like a cup of tea. Molly half-stifled a giggle, putting her own soup down to get a towel to finish drying Sherlock's hair.

He leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes and humming softly as she rubbed the wet locks between the friction of the towel. His hair was left fluffy and sporadic by the time she sat down again, although Sherlock didn't seem to mind so she left it like that, he looked a tad too cute.

'How did you get out of the cell?' Molly eventually worked up the courage to ask. Sherlock set his empty bowl down, now finished and feeling a lot warmer from both the shower and the food inside him.

'They left. Obviously their criminal activities had been tracked down and they fled. I was, however, stuck there for a few more days until the local police came back to the hide-out to collect evidence. They freed me and I managed to slip away before they could send me to hospital or the police station.'

Molly sat silently, waiting for Sherlock to continue. Eventually she had to prompt him, 'Then you came here?'

Sherlock shook his head with a grime smile. 'I tracked the gang down and took out the lot near the border. Had to get away quick afterwards as my escape from the authorities had put a call out for my arrest.'

Molly stared at the man in front of her in disbelief. He had said it so casually, as if hunting down and killing a mob of foreign gangsters was the most regular way to spend a few weeks. _More like months_, she thought to herself in realisation. Molly found herself frowning lost by it all and wanting to ask something that had confused her for a while.

'Why do you come back here Sherlock? Why, every time something goes wrong, when your exhausted or injured or just lost, you fly all the way back here! Why?'

Sherlock swallowed and leaned forward, studying his clasp hands in front of him, eyes flicking back and forth as if trying to decide whether to lie. 'Funds, information...longing for something, familiar.'

Silence followed.

Molly knew it wasn't the complete truth, but she also knew it wasn't a complete lie. She understood what he was trying to convey and blushed. Looking around the room, anywhere but at the man sitting in front of her.

He just wanted to come home.

She went to bed early, knowing she had to go into work early the next day. Sherlock stayed on the couch, telling her that he probably wasn't going to get much sleep and he would only disturb her. Molly relented, making him promise to call her if anything was wrong.

She left him spread out on the couch with a blanket and a few large pillows, her cat was curled up content and asleep next to him. Toby would look after him.

* * *

**love to hear your thoughts**


	6. Sixth

**Notes:**

**This went on for longer, but then this would have been super long and the next one super short. So i spread it out, cause i'm that nice =)**

**Running out of ideas though of what to do to sherlock so if anyone wants to really see something happen, just leave a review or PM me. Otherwise i'll have to start wrapping it up. Which for me is fine but i want to give you guys more. i think you deserve more.**

**Anyway, thank you all who alerted and favourtied; **waterbaby84, TheFireSagittarius and Willowed Moon, **thanks guys!**

**To all those lovely people who left reviews; **AdaYuki, Tammy (Guest) **(thank you so much! It really means a lot and i'm glad your enjoying it and my go at their characters =) ) and **Oswin221 (Guest)** (thank YOU so much for reading and reviewing). **

**For all you guys, have another chapter!**

* * *

VI.

Molly's night was restless. She lay awake, in tune to the coughing permeating from the lounge room. The worst part being she could tell he was trying to be quiet for her. She would later kick herself for not going to him immediately, but the bed was warm, she was exhausted and frightened by the night's events. She eventually fell asleep to the muffled, hoarse coughs that rattled his body. Her dreams were terrifying parody's of what had happened early that evening, and what could have happened.

Sherlock was asleep still by the time she left for work. She left some bread and toaster out, along with a note sweetly suggesting he try and eat some toast and that she only had a half day of work anyway. When she got home after one, he hadn't moved. Molly glared at the man's back, and yet the curled up form on the couch gave no acknowledgement that she had returned.

'You're a bloody idiot you know that, Sherlock?! I've taken you in, I try to feed you and look after you with no hesitation on my part. I move my _life _around you and your sporadic schedule. I never ever complain and simply ask that you-'

'Molly?'

She stopped her rant, turning around in the kitchen to look at him. He had moved onto his back, hands clenched mid-air and face tight with pain. His breathing was quick and gasping.

'Sherlock? What's..' he was scaring her.

'Can't-can't breathe.'

Molly instantly dropped the loaf of bread she had waved around when trying to make her point. She rushed over kneeling in front of him and grabbing a wavering fist.

'Okay, calm down,' she hoped _she _sounded clam. 'Take deep breaths, slow; like me.'

He tried but ended up coughing, mouth opening but no air going in. His eyes wide open, petrified.

'Shit', she swore. 'Okay different tactic. Try and sit up.' She lifted his upper half and slid in behind him at the head of the couch. Pulling her legs in he rested against her raised knees. She held him as straight as she could. 'Okay, don't take deep breaths, but slow down. You'll get more in and relax if you regulate your breathing.' Oh god how he was trying. She could feel how tense he was in front of her. After what felt like the longest, most torturous time he finally got his breathing back under control, but Molly could still hear the rattle in his chest. She could feel his lungs struggling to expand through her hands that were pressed flat on his back.

Sherlock was soaked in sweat once more and his back seemed to be burning her knees and yet his whole body shivered as if he was freezing, Molly could feel his racing pulse.

_Oh god, _she thought and got out from behind him, placing a large pillow as a substitute between him and the couch. He had his eyes closed once more and was clearly concentrating on breathing. She leant over him, pushing the sweat mattered fringe back from his face which felt far too hot.

Sherlock blearily opened his eyes, 'John?' he sounded so lost and small. The name was asked with such hope and longing, causing Molly's stomach to twist painfully. Sherlock took another shuddering breath when not getting a reply, unsure where to place his hands. 'My chest hurts.'

Molly bit her lip; she knew why it hurt but didn't know what she could do about it. She moved away to get a glass of water and Sherlock's face was suddenly terrified once more, 'John?!'

_Oh god no, I'm not John, _Molly quickly came back with the water. 'Sherlock', he looked at her with glazed eyes. 'Try and drink this, but slowly okay?'

He nodded and she handed him the glass which he clasped in two hands as they wouldn't stop shaking.

Molly grabbed the phone from the coffee table, she was so conflicted. She could ruin everything, but would he forgive her? Surely once he realised...

She dialled John's number, thumb hovering over the call button. Molly looked at Sherlock who was intently watching the water swish around his glass.

'Don't make me regret this,' she pressed the button and brought the phone to her ear, making herself listen to the dial tone and not hang up. She can't lose her nerve now.

Sherlock's sudden voice made her jump, 'Who are you calling?'

Molly tilted her head back, eyes closing nervously as she listened to the phone begin to ring, 'John.'

Sherlock leapt up with speed and yanked the phone from her unsuspecting grasp. He held the phone in his hand, about to hang up when there was a familiar voice.

'Hello, John Watson.'

Sherlock's eyes slowly closed and his grip tightened around the phone. All he would have to do is reply. One word, just one word and-

He hanged up. John wouldn't know who it had been.

Sherlock stared at the phone with such pain and loss before he was attacked by another coughing fit that had him collapsing back down on the couch.

Molly was frantic, losing any sense of calm she had managed to hold for this long. 'I don't know what to do Sherlock. I'm sorry, I didn't know who else to call! You need a doctor or a hospital or something but the world thinks you're dead and-and...'

Sherlock was fumbling with the phone, pressing numbers then dial. He held it out to Molly while the rest of his body doubled over in more agonising coughing. 'Mycroft,' he gasped before falling back against the couch and coughing wetly into his sleeve. There were specks of dark brown blood, he groaned.

Molly listened to the phone with impatience, eventually a voice answered. She had only meet him once before, albeit very briefly.

'Mycroft Holmes. Who is this?'

She tried to sound clear and calm, as she watched the man's brother take slow breaths on her couch. 'Molly Hooper.'

'Miss Hooper', the voice replied softly. 'And how did you come by my number?'

She bit her lip. 'Sherlock Holmes.'

There was a pause at the other end. 'I see. Do you happen-'

'Your brother, Mr Holmes, is sitting on my couch turning blue as he struggles to breathe through the gunk in his lungs from pneumonia.'

There was another pause in response. Now that Molly had been given this connection she was terrified to be refused and be left to deal with Sherlock alone. Finally there was a reply, 'I'll send someone over.'

She sighed in relief, 'Thank you. I live at-', the line cut off and Molly frowned, turning her head when she thought she heard a breathy chuckle from the couch.

'I suppose _he's _the one paying for your around the world holiday,' she didn't mean for it to come out so hateful, but she hated this, all of it.

Sherlock gave a weak huff, 'It's the less he can do.' He explained but didn't open his eyes.

Molly let out a breath and sat down next to him on the couch, heart still racing from the sudden change in events.

It wasn't fifteen minutes later when there was a knock on the door. Molly jumped but gave Sherlock's had a reassuring rub. 'Hopefully that's him.'

She opened the door enough to create a gap. On the other side was an older gentleman with a kind face but a serious set of eyes. 'Doctor Banks. Apparently there is a serious case of pneumonia.'

After the night before, Molly's trust levels had decreased and her danger alert levels had gone up significantly. Sherlock had always said not to, she had promised to...Molly didn't budge. The doctor gave an impatient yet apparently understanding sigh.

'Look,' he explained. 'Mycroft Holmes himself sent me, Miss Hooper.'

Molly hesitated for a few seconds more, but a soft groan from within her flat reinstated the seriousness of the situation and how much she was out of her depth. She opened the door grimed face and the man stepped hurriedly through. Molly led him to the lounge where Doctor Banks immediately started assessing Sherlock's vitals.

'Okay,' he said gently after a few moments. 'How long has he been like this?'

Molly was so relieved that someone other than herself was taking control of the situation and making sure Sherlock didn't die. She was beginning to feel guilt about not letting the doctor in straight away. _No, Sherlock would approve._

Molly winced as she calculated the time from what Sherlock had told her, 'About, two weeks.'

Dr Banks frowned in concern. 'Well, change of plans then.'

Molly panicked as the doctor pulled out his mobile and began a call.

'What?! Who are you calling?'

'Mr Holmes,' he replied before stepping out of ear shot. –'Yes, it seems more serious than we initially thought. Yes, quite serious.'

Molly stood rigid with clenched fists in the middle of her lounge. Was Sherlock at risk of dying? After everything his gone through and suffered, did Sherlock almost die on her couch?

She watched him as he struggled to breathe on her couch, month open and covered in sweat, creating a dark patch on the t-shirt and plastering those arrogant curls to his forehead.

Dr Banks returned, face serious and in complete doctor mode.

'What's going on?' Molly asked confused and overwhelmed. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do. I didn't realise it was this serious! I didn't even know I could call anyone!'

Banks held up his hands in a calming gesture to stop Molly's frantic speech. 'It's alright Miss Hooper'

'Molly, you-you can call me Molly.' she insisted.

He smiled kindly at her. 'It's alright Molly, Mr. Holmes will explain everything and know-one is blaming you. What we can do now for Sherlock is move him.'

'No! You can't! He has to-'

The doctor held up his open palms again. 'It's alright. Everyone is aware of the delicate situation that you are in. But now, Sherlock needs help, _you _need help.' He strode over and took out his stethoscope once more, placing it against Sherlock's shuddering chest. Sherlock blinked his eyes open, becoming aware of what was going on around him. Dr Bank's gave him a warm, reassuring smile that seemed to satisfy Sherlock.

'So,' Doctor Banks continued. 'Any minute now a car is going to arrive to transport Sherlock and yourself to a safe house of Mr Holmes.'

'But-'

'Mr Holmes would like to assure you that everything will be taken care of Miss Molly and that he thinks it best for his brother if you should be with him.'

Molly closed her mouth and looked flabbergasted over to the younger Holmes.

'He will receive the best care until he is fully recovered or until Mr Holmes sees fit. Well', he chuckled. 'When the older Holmes sees fit.'

Molly left Sherlock under the Doctors care to pack a bag, not entirely sure how long for and worried what Mycroft had/was going to tell her work.

Eventually a dark tinted car arrived and an oxygen mask was quickly fitted to Sherlock. The two men lifted Sherlock, walking him to the car and placing him inside the back. Molly slid in beside him with the doctor on the other side. Sherlock didn't appear worried about the situation, whether it was because he knew what was going on or was so out of it that he simply complied. Either way, Molly grasped his hand to which he clutched tightly in return. She was scared, and could tell that Sherlock was too; not being able to breathe is a frightening ordeal.

There was a forty minute drive, fast and weaving in and out of traffic along a twisting and turning path. All seemed ready for something and Molly was worried of the danger that was suddenly more real outside the comfort of her flat. At some point all relaxed and there was a smooth ride for the next twenty minutes where the brightness of city lights decreased and the darkness was comforting. The car pulled up at a lit up house, doors were opened and movements were rushed. Sherlock was again carried away with Dr Banks assuring Molly that all was fine.

'I'm going to look after him Molly. He's going to be fine. We have medical equipment here that should see him out and on the road to a quick and easy recovery.'

Molly was then left behind as the group rushed further into the house. She was then escorted to a warm kitchen where a kind, elderly woman made her tea. The woman was trying to engage her in conversation but Molly was too worked up to listen. She gripped her mug and turned her head at any movement coming from outside of the room. Eventually the woman gave an understanding pat on Molly's hand before moving away to bustle around the kitchen.

Half an hour later that really seemed like hours to Molly, clicking of shoes approached and Molly looked up surprised to see Sherlock's elder brother, Mycroft; eyebrows raised as he read from a small black notebook. He reached the table where Molly sat and finally looked up with what could be assumed as a comforting smile.

The older woman in the kitchen left without a word and Molly tried not to feel nervous alone in the man's presence. Although, she had been told he _was_ the British government.

'Well Miss Hooper.'

'Is Sherlock alright?'

He gave a small chuckle and sat down on a chair opposite Molly, leaning towards her on the table.

'His body is exhausted from coughing and worn from his...unhealthy lifestyle of late. However, he is responding well to treatment so far.'

Molly couldn't help but let out a large breath she hadn't realise she had held. The stress from the past few hours was lifted off her shoulders. She couldn't help but feel extremely revealed that someone else was taking control in Sherlock's health for once.

'Can I see him?'

Mycroft dipped his head in confirmation. 'First Miss Hooper, I believe we need to have a little chat.'

It took all of Molly's will power to not swallow as a nervous reaction. She can deal with Sherlock and will _not _be frightened of his older brother.

'What about?'

He smiled. 'I think we both know the answer to that.'

* * *

**To be continued...**

**Love to hear your thoughts!**


	7. Seventh

**Notes:**

**So part 3 really, i like this one. Not sure why.**

**Anyway, thanks so much for all those wonderful individuals who favd and/or alerted this story. Glad to see people want to read more! **LadyK1138, UltimateOne **and **coyote616. **oh, only three? well thats awkward. But really that just makes me appreciate you guys more so thanks!**

**And to my lovely reviewers! **AdaYuki **(here's the rest!), **LadyK1138 **(thank you so much! for you also, have some more) and **Brightpath2 **(as usual, thank you so much for your continued show of support. Don't hate mycroft too much for this ;) )**

**For the rest of you; enjoy!**

* * *

VII

Molly kept Mycroft's gaze, trying not to show how uncomfortable he made her feel.

The elder Holmes continued, 'For the past year and months, you have taken care of my little brother, every time he turns up, broken at your front door. I also hear that you care extends not just to his physical state, but mental as well.'

Molly held her chin up, unsure to where all this was heading but ready to defend herself and Sherlock if need be. Mycroft studied her over his clasped hands.

'Is that all? Can I see him now?' Molly stood and went to leave but he stopped her.

'You do realise the danger he's putting you in. He merely sees you as an tool, a stepping-stone to his next destination and target. You only a provider of what he needs.'

Molly turned and began to walk away from the table and the man.

Mycroft continued. 'You don't have to help him; I hope you've been told. I can easily arrange a better alternative, for both of you. No more interruptions for you Miss Hooper. You can continue your daily life knowing Sherlock is safe and looked after.'

Molly paused at the doorway then turned around to face the older Holmes who sat uncomfortably straight in his chair, reading into everything. She held his gaze on the point of a glare. 'I'm the only friend he had left, he can go to.'

Mycroft huffed in what appeared as amusement. 'How many friends do you think he has?'

'A lot more than you care to think.' Molly left, heart pounding and shocked with herself and her new-found strength. She soon forgot it all as she bumped into Doctor Banks.

'Oh! I'm sorry I was-'

The doctor smiled, Molly liked him. 'I'm guessing you want to see your friend.'

She nodded and he led her along a corridor and up a flight of stairs. He carefully opened the door to a spacious room and Molly hesitantly crossed the threshold, her gaze locked on the figure in bed.

'He should be fine. He's a fighter, still call if there are any problems. If not me there will be someone close by.'

She turned and gave him a proper thank you to which the doctor shook his head with a small chuckle. 'It's the least I can do. After all he did, saving my son's life five years ago.'

Molly was shocked but he closed the door and left before she could ask anything more. She slowly made her way over to the large king bed. Sherlock was attached to an IV drip and oxygen mask. Another line fed him antibiotics and she shrunk at the seriousness of his condition. Molly felt guilty, she had done nothing, and he could have died in her inadequate care. She watched his chest rise and fall, his breathing obviously a lot easier.

'I'm here Sherlock. I don't know whether that's any help or if you even want my help anymore. But I'll be here anyway.' She touched his arm reassuringly, more for herself than him though. Molly sat there, overwhelmed and guilty, Mycroft was right. She was just an instrument to be used in Sherlock's eyes, always had been. Nothing had changed except Molly believing it had. She couldn't even keep him safe.

An hour later doctor Banks returned and suggested she got some sleep. 'It's been a chaotic evening and I doubt he'll appreciate waking up only to find you passed out yourself.'

She smiled gratefully at the doctors concern, _he wouldn't._ She thought, _all Sherlock had done was an act. He didn't care about her, not the way he cared for John or Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade._

The older women from before showed Molly to her room. Margret was her name and Molly was thankful for her grandmotherly persona. 'If there's anything you need anytime, just give a shout dear.'

Molly thanked her before failing into the unfamiliar bed but soon sleep found her.

She showered before eventually wandering down, finding the kitchen from the night before where doctor Banks was reading the morning newspaper. Margret immediately bustled over to the table and served breakfast. Everything was so...surreal.

'How's Sherlock?' she ventured, not wanting to interrupt the doctors reading but desperate to know.

'He's doing well. Woke up twice in the night briefly and once more this morning, the name "John" was often called for throughout.'

Molly hummed in sympathy, Sherlock probably didn't even realise he was saying it in his feverish state.

'Still,' the doctor continued. 'None of my business. I'm just the doctor and as his doctor I am pleased to say he should make a quick and full recovery in a few weeks. Of course,' he added after a moment of thought. 'It wouldn't have been so dire if his body and immune system hadn't already been exhausted and weak. Too little food with too much running about that one.'

Molly tried to hide the small smile, _Yes; well that's Sherlock for you._

She went back up to his room later with a book and sat on the end of the massive bed. The rustling sheets a few hours later were what alerted her to Sherlock's consciousness. His eyes were hazy with exhaustion but he gave a small smile when they fell on Molly.

'Hey,' she said placing her book face down and swivelling around to face him. He gave a small, humorous wave of his hand in reply and she giggled.

'Thirsty?'

He nodded and she poured him a small glass which she helped him to sit and drink.

'I suppose doctor Banks informed you of your condition?'

He nodded again but on wetting his throat attempted to speak. 'Yes,' he croaked, frowning in annoyance at its strain. Molly bit her lip and Sherlock turned the empty glass around in his hands.

'I'm sorry Sherlock, you were really sick and I didn't know what to do and now heaps of people know your alive and I know I promised but I couldn't...'

He weakly placed his hand on her arm, stopping her. 'Molly its fine, truly. It's my fault for not dealing with it sooner. I was just too cowardly and proud to call Mycroft to help. I didn't want him to have a lever to wedge into the situation more than he already does.' Molly scoffed at that.

'What?' Sherlock asked and she immediately regretted it.

'No, nothing. It's fine.'

He looked at her with those eyes, now grey and intense; able to see her every thought. 'Something else is upsetting you, what is it?'

She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to tell him but she had to know the truth. 'Every time you come to me for help, are you putting me in danger?'

Sherlock was silent for a while before straining to sit up further. 'My brothers been speaking to you, hasn't he?'

Molly shook her head, irritated he didn't straight out answer. 'You're avoiding my question. Do you?'

He frowned, serious but with clear concern in his eyes. 'Look at me Molly.'

She slowly turned her head and held eye contact with him.

'I would never-never purposefully pit you in danger or compromise your safety. I am incredibly careful and had I ever the slightest sign that my presence would somehow affect you, I would never show up. Let me tell you that there have been many times I haven't. Hell! I got shot in the leg but stayed hidden because I knew you would be in danger if I went to you.'

Molly didn't reply and Sherlock lay back down, clearly having exhausted his little storage of strength.

'What else did my brother tell you?'

She sighed; there was no use in hiding anything from Sherlock. 'He said that I could get out of this. That he could have someone take over and look out for you. He told me-he said I was merely a tool to be used for your own gain. He offered me safety and peace, with me knowing you would be safe under his care.'

Sherlock's reaction was unexpected and Molly didn't know what to say when he laughed. Until he fell into a coughing fit. She poured some more water which he drank but still continued to chuckle softly.

'What?!' she demanded.

He looked up at her with that old glint in his eyes, something Molly hadn't seen for a long time.

'He's jealous.'

'What?' she asked again.

'Mycroft, he's jealous that I'm going to you. He is beyond frustrated that he can't keep tabs on me and tell me what to do and where to go and get _his _people involved.' Sherlock laughed a bit more and shook his head a little. Suddenly seriousness took hold of his features once more. 'I would tie it down to guilt but...' he didn't finish his sentence, instead taking another sip of water and sitting in silence afterwards.

'Ignore him Molly, that's what I do.'

She fiddled with her fingers, still feeling unsure. Sherlock paused and looked defeated. 'Unless of course, you don't want me to. Do you want me to accept his offer? Because if that's what you want then I'll do it...for you.'

Molly cupped her face with her hand, taking large breaths, eventually shaking her head slowly. 'No. I hate this Sherlock. I really do. Every time you come back its all...it's hard. But I want and promised to help you, and I don't want you to think you have to do this alone. You shouldn't have to do this alone. And although the times between kill me, every time you show up, it's-it's just so much of a relief to know, to see you alive.'

Sherlock mostly slept, with Molly beside him on the few occasions when everything overwhelmed him and she stayed, giving him support and comfort like no-one else could. Sherlock was grateful but would later never admit to being so emotionally fragile.

'It hurts Molly,' he began on a particular night while half awake in the darkness. Molly shuffled closer to him so they could whisper.

'What does?'

Sherlock swallowed. 'It's a constant ache. I know it would be painful, but I didn't think it would burn as much as it does, as often as it does.'

Molly took a breath, now understanding the meaning of his words. 'You miss him.'

Sherlock nodded and in the moonlight she could see his eyes close and mouth quiver as he tried to hide his emotions. 'It's,' his hand moved to his chest. 'Constant pain Molly.' He turned over to face her now, their faces inches apart and now she could see the glint in his eyes of the unshed tears. 'I miss him every day. Hour, minute. I-I thought it would stop, I thought it would go back to how it use to be and the pain would eventually go numb and then forgotten.' He shook his head despairingly. 'But it doesn't. It never does and some does it's truly unbearable and I'm so close to just...giving up. Mycroft could take over and I could go home but then, then it would have all been for nothing, and I would have nothing to show for it. I wouldn't be able to give him a reason.'

He was silent; the only noise of their two individual breathing filling the room as Molly stroked Sherlock's silky hair, knowing no words could comfort him. Molly had to go home the next day, but Sherlock was still required a lot more rest.

Nothing of the kind was said and three weeks later a much healthier looking Sherlock arrived at Molly's flat. He stayed for a cup of tea and left ten minutes later with a hug and a determined smile that Molly hoped would get him through till the next time.

* * *

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	8. Eighth

**Notes: Sorry for the wait, life wanted to remind me what's more important. But i am sacrificing studying for you! So hopefully you enjoy it!**

**As always thanks to those who fav/alerted: **Yeedle, booklover669, mg333, Foreign Nebula, jesslovessmiles, Aspen Luna, anasaziana, ambulee, maraudermarie1234, Irene90, The Queen of Fragile Hearts, Augustine-Safa **and **Madeline Khill

**To all those wonderful, wonderful people who left me wonderful reviews that were wonderful! =)** LadyK1138, NZcalling, AdaYuki, Brightpath2, Guest **(thank you so much! I don't mind were you stand! glad your enjoying it thank you for your review!) **booknerdhere **(hehe, you =) ) and **Irene90 **(didn't quite fit it? Tell me and I'll write one before i finsh this up =) but hopefully you enjoy it all the same)**

**Thank you all so much for being patient and hope for some really good whump is S3 ( i know i am, its about time for some good whump)**

**Enjoy! **

* * *

VIII

Many months later in a forest white with frost, dogs pulled in the chains that their owners had a firm grip on. Torches flicked haphazardly as the carriers were pulled along at the frantic pace set by the hounds. The whined to go faster and snapped and barked as the scent became hotter and hotter.

Sherlock knew hiding was useless and so continued to limp forward, dodging the thick trunks of trees as his hurried breaths created soft puffs of air.

Both hunted and hunter knew they were getting closer and so Sherlock changed course towards the river. Once on the other side there was a half mile run to a farmhouse that held a motorbike; the aim of his frantic escape. If the river didn't deter them, then the motorbike should. If it just wasn't for his damn leg! With those thoughts a flash of memory over-took everything for a moment. The trees morphed into the streets and alleyways of London. Sherlock could even hear John running just behind him for a moment...

Sherlock pushed back the memory with a growl, _not now! _

Frantic yells in another language of the hunting group flickered sporadically and loudly not too far behind Sherlock. And so he gritted his teeth and pushed his transport to go even faster. He was now running down hill and knew that if he lost his footing, he was done for.

The river was approaching and Sherlock headed towards a rocky outcrop. With a yell of pain he jumped from the rough surface and leapt, arms spread as he flew over the expanse of white rushing water below. His heart quenched, he'll _just _make it.

A loud crack sounded and echoed through the woods. Immense burning pain flared in Sherlock's side as the opposite bank drew alarmingly closer. He brought his arms and legs forward, hitting the steep bank with a jolting thud.

Sherlock tried to scramble for the top of the embankment but his bleeding leg gave way underneath him and he slipped backwards and down towards the foamy water. The barking and frantic yells increased and Sherlock inwardly cursed as his body plunged into the cold, dark water in a matter of seconds. The river instantly took hold and pulled him along.

His world twisted and panic took hold; not knowing which way was up as his body was clumsily tumbled in the current. At one point he somehow knew it was safe to breathe and he gulped in a sharp sweet bite of air as he desperately tried to gain some control in the rushing water; concerned with the growing roar coming from up ahead. The wind was knocked out of him as he was slammed into a rock and sent under again momentarily. On resurfacing, he had about three seconds to push and reach for what appeared to be a branch still covered in leaves.

The fallen tree was pulled along before jolting to a stop that almost caused Sherlock to lose his fragile grip. Without wasting time, he pulled himself along the groaning tree branch to the trunk, up the steep bank and to the splintered stump of the tree.

Shivering with exhaustion and the freezing cold, he crawled into the fringe of the forest where he collapsed in the shelter of the trees. Torches flashed now and then and yells could be heard across the river, as they walked along checking the banks.

Although he knew he shouldn't, Sherlock fell to the blackness and wasn't found. They must have concluded he went over the falls and by the time they return to their large concrete facility, the police will be there waiting for them.

'Well I guess I can say we're even now Mr Holmes.' That voice whispered in its distinct tone and Sherlock let out an involuntary moan.

'You saved my life and now I've saved yours, although technically there shouldn't have even been a life _to _save.'

Everything burned as warmth began to spread through his limbs. Sherlock shivered more and a delicate hand was placed on top of his. At least she had shut up.

The crackle of a small fire was the first thing his conscious took in. Soon, as he became more awake, the amount of stimuli increased as his awareness of the conscious world around him expanded out.

Sherlock stiffened; his body's self-learnt defense from the past months when he woke up. Slowly he opened his eyes to a spacious room. He was pressed under the weight of a pile of blankets and lying as close as possible to the fireplace where warmth glowed in the flickering flames. Miss Adler was curled up in a couch reading a book.

'No need to thank me. I don't recall ever thanking you.'

Sherlock attempted to sit up but his side twisted and his leg felt heavy and unresponsive. He frowned as he reached under the blankets, hand travelling across his bare chest and bandages.

'Your clothes were soaking wet. You look ridiculous in them anyway.' Adler supplied, yet to take her eyes away from the novel.

Sherlock was too angry to care what she thought and sat up more, pulling the blankets away to inspect the damage to his leg.

Only after finishing the chapter did The Woman put the book aside and lent forward, hands on knees and smiling at him in that taunting way of hers. 'The doctor was clueless about who you were, far more concerned with his gambling debt to worry about the likes of you. Just did what needed to be done and hassled for the money.

Sherlock grunted in reply, shivering despite his bodies close proximity to the blazing fire.

'The bullet only grazed your side, thankfully, and your leg hasn't suffered any permanent damage. The main concern was your body temperature as you were in moderate hypothermia.'

Sherlock wrapped the blankets around his shoulders as his body continued to convulse with shudders. He didn't look at her, only stared blankly at where he tried wiggling his toes under the blankets. 'How did you find me? How did you know I was alive?'

This time he did turn to her and she merely raised an eyebrow.

_Oh, right, _he reprimanded himself. _This is The Woman._

'You look terrible.'

He huffed, what does she mean by that? Of course he would look terrible. At least when he was with Molly he understood her, with the thought of her a sudden pain of longing hit him. He missed her easy company and gentle care. Sherlock didn't have the mentality or physical energy to play mind games with Irene Adler, not now.

'Are you hungry?'

_Oh god, not this again._

'Let's have dinner, you look half-starved.'

_Oh... _But instead he turned his back to her and curled up on the floor again, only because he knew he was about to drop out.

At some point he stumbled from the floor to a bed in which Irene would occasionally join him. Even in his half-aware state, Sherlock could see her loneliness and he knew exactly how she felt. They were both supposed to be dead, her protecting her life, Sherlock for protecting his friends.

He ate something she gave him at some-point and a few days later being just strong enough to limp away from the small home of Irene Adler.

Sherlock never said thank you and there were no clichéd goodbyes. They didn't do things that way. Everything that needed to be conveyed was said through their strange language of knowledge and deductions wrapped around in the word play of metaphors and similes.

He had been dead for two years now, and he could barely care enough to do anything more than curl his hand around the key for the door of 221B and keep pushing forward on to the next target.

Hopefully somewhere warmer.

* * *

The whimpering quickly turned into shouting, that itself distorted into screams.

Molly had never been awoken in such a way, especially getting a fright to find a four-month absent Sherlock in her bed. He definitely hadn't been there when she got in and went to sleep earlier.

His body rocked and jerked around, as if trying to get something off that was attacking him. Most of the frantic screams were muffled by the pillow which he clung to.

Without turning on the light Molly sat up and touched his arm, griping tightly as if her firm touch would pull him out of whatever torment was going through his mind. Eventually he began to calm as he emerged from the terror as her hand travelled from his arm up to his cheek. Tears had left them cold and he was still quivering and shouting with such fear that she had never witnessed from anyone, let alone Sherlock.

Suddenly the cries stopped and Sherlock lay there quite and unmoving. Molly's hand was back on his shoulder, she thought she could see his eyes open in the darkness. She gently caressed the sweat slicked skin, 'Shhh, it's alright. It was just a dream, just a dream. You're alright. I'm here, Molly's here.' She couldn't believe she was saying such juvenile things. Either way Sherlock's terrified eyes closed before borrowing his face into the pillow as he began to sob.

Molly could deal with an injured Sherlock, she could look after a sick and exhausted one. But a crying Sherlock was something Molly never imagined herself seeing and had no idea what to do or say.

A maternal side that was rarely used took control and she gathered the long, lanky man in her arms as best she could and held him tightly to her chest as he cried, clinging to her pyjama top and with his face buried into her neck.

Molly didn't know how long she sat there with him, but he didn't stop crying until he fell into an exhausted unconsciousness. After she laid him back down, Molly stayed awake, stroking his hair and neck, terrified to let go.

Sherlock had stayed for five nights and hadn't gone back to bed. Every night, Molly would ask him if he was coming to bed and every time he would smile tiredly at her, as if he wasn't scared to go to sleep but just didn't want to. Instead he stayed up all night, researching and tracking and god knows what across the internet.

Every night it was the same thing, with Molly getting more concerned, watching the shadows beneath Sherlock's eyes darken in strength as his body slowly lost his. He wasn't interested in food or things at the morgue such as detailed autopsies, or even life in general.

She could no longer get him to co-operate through his want to please he and show gratification, instead he just wondered around on three levels; the flat, the streets of London or in a day-dream. Molly was terrified when he left the flat, worried he would pass out on the streets and it only could get horribly worse from there.

His behaviour worried Molly more than any bullet wound or pneumonia could. A few mornings she had come out into the lounge room, finding Sherlock unconscious on the couch again or thrashing around and screaming, trapped in another night terror.

She wanted to know what was torturing him so much, what had changed and how she could help. He had lost more weight and his arms and chest were covered in red, thick lines and furrows from where he clawed at his body during his sleep. Physical damage Molly could deal with, but this seemed to be in a purely mental level, leaving her lost about how to fix it.

One afternoon he was on the floor, laying on his side and staring blankly into a distance that didn't exist. Aware of, but resolutely ignoring the tears that rolled silently from his red rimmed eyes and dropping onto the carpet below.

'Sherlock,' Molly pleaded softly, moving down onto her knees in front of him. 'What can I do?'

His exhausted eyes moved smoothly and precisely to her face. He fumbled for her hand and upon finding it, gripped tightly. Eventually he slowly pulled her down in front of him, pulling her in close to his bare chest. The spooning position was comforting; despite the fact they were on her floor.

Molly lay there, hoping that this is what he needed and glad she could give it to him. Sherlock's arms were wrapped around her waist, holding on tightly as a child does to his mothers skirts. This wasn't sexual; he was a scared boy who had been forced to do horrible things. And despite it all, Molly felt great comfort as she lay in his warmth, listening to the rhythm of his lungs and heart beat.

Later he fell asleep, and she didn't move as he slept easy, dreamless and restorative. Eventually she pulled a blanket over the two of them and stroked his hand lightly, thankful that he was finally getting some sleep. He would survive this.

* * *

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	9. Ninth

**Notes: This ones a bit more relaxed i guess, in both writing and how much care i put into it. Bit of a spell between the last chapter and the next one which will go back to some new inspiration of whump and the good old sherlock and Molly...thing we've come to crave!**

**Thank you to all who favd and or alerted; **franzi86, drey'auc475, drpaz, lcores, Laughablelou, bookworm142, Tamiriel, NicoleJacobs, Catie501, Clufie, FanFictionette and SchmidttenForever **You guys, thanks so much for joining in on the fun!**

**And a big big thank you to all those extra wonderful people that left me such lovely reviews!: **AdaYuki **(you gonna have to wait to see what happens next again!), **booknerdhere **(seriously you, you know how much i appreciate your support =) ), **mrsmuchmore **(I'm so sorry, have some more now!), **LadyK1138 (Guest) **(you have every right to mske me feel guilty! have some more and thank you so much for reading and reviewing, great to hear how much your enjoying it!) **Irene90 **(your request is still at the back of my mind, i really want to use it and hope the chance will come up soon) **Brightpath2 **( =) ) **NicoleJacobs **(Thank you so so much (again) ) **and finally Catie501 **(you've been so great. I started writing this before your PM but will begin using your requests in the next chapter, its given me direction and i've challenged myself to use all of them. Thank you so much! =) ) **

**So here it is, sorry guys, its hard with my final year of school approaching the end and with two stories going at once. Really shouldn't have started this one but i wanted it out before season 3, (heaps of time right?! hehe). Anyway, i'm enjoying writing bits of this every now and then and you all loving it so much that i want stop till its done.**

**Thanks, hope you like it despite its...strangeness.**

**=)**

* * *

IX.

The next time she saw Sherlock was two months later, although technically she didn't _see _him. Instead returning home to find at least half of her loaf of bread gone, the honey and butter left out and an empty cup of what use to be tea in the sink. Molly rolled her eyes and cleaned up the mess. On the fridge she found a yellow sticky-note with Sherlock's hand writing.

_Back in London. Sorry about the crumbs._

Molly smiled, back in London_, _she couldn't believe it. _For good?_

* * *

'Yes', Sherlock answered the next time she was with him a week later. He had texted her and she had met him at a coffee shop in the middle of London, he was dressed in jeans and a baggy jacket sprouting stubble that Molly thought made him look like a over-worked father.

'There's a few last things I have to tidy up here and then I'm done.' He said it so casually that it caught Molly off guard.

'And then you're done?!' She couldn't believe it, the past years seemed to never have an end in sight, at least not a happy one.

Sherlock frowned, hating being repeated; things didn't need to be said twice.

Molly felt a large grin take over her face and she couldn't remember being this happy in a long time. Sherlock's himself was also trying very hard not to break out into a smile and just before losing the fight he brought his coffee cup up to his twitching lips, hiding the still obvious smile behind a large sip of coffee.

* * *

Sherlock was obviously living on the streets of London, but wouldn't admit it. Molly was also sure Sherlock was taking food from her flat and giving it away to the homeless network he was using for assistance in destroying the last few threads of the empire.

Every now and then he would crash at her place, almost literally from the exhausted-like way he would fall into her bed and sprawl out, face down only to leave again early the next morning. It wasn't till much later that she found out the actual story behind 'the dog.'

Sherlock had been gathering information; tracking a group that had become uneasy as their former safety network collapsed around them. However, embarrassingly enough for Sherlock that Molly had to ask him to repeat what he had said, it wasn't the black-mailers who beat Sherlock to a pulp, but a gang of thugs, boys really.

Sherlock's info from his homeless network had led him to the dangerous back-streets of London that Sherlock knew all too well from a wasted chapter of his youth.

The frantic taunts and obnoxious swearing was what first alerted Sherlock, although on realising the noise was nothing but a group of bored street-kids, he was prepared to walk past without a second thought. But something caused him to look again and he saw the cause for the teenager's excitement. A group of seven boys were circled around a few month old German Sheppard; backed up against a wall and growling, hackles raised at its ring of terrorizes.

The boys threw objects at the dog, darting forward to kick it in the side or face. The pup was clearly terrified and knew it wasn't going to last much longer as it panted and struggled to keep its defensive position.

A spray can of paint emerged and the dog yelped in pain as one of the boys aimed the pink spray into the pups face. This caused another round of laughter and although Sherlock wasn't one to care for domesticated pets, this was ranging on pathetic. It was the abuse the teens inflicted with their sudden found power that caused him to interfere, at least that's what he told himself later.

'Oie! Piss off,' he said in an exasperated tone causing the youths to turn in shock at who addressed them in such a confronting way, but the look in Sherlock's eyes made them slightly hesitant in retaliating straight away.

'Seven of you against a pup, surely that could only entertain your small minds for so long. Did the other gangs get too tough for you?'

A few youths frowned when realising they were being insulted as Sherlock studied the group more closely.

'Which one of you initiated this then? Terrified of dogs I assume.' His eyes fell to the biggest boy with the spray paint who flinched just the slightest bit. 'Ah, there he is.'

They boy's eyes widened in panic as they others in his group turned to look back at him with shocked and mocking faces. Their leader's persona of fearlessness was doubted and so the boy was forced to reinstate it. 'Get him idiots!'

The six other boys slowly advanced on the seemingly defenceless stranger. Sherlock didn't want to beat up teenagers as a small voice whispered what an incredibly stupid decision to make based on no logical basis of thought.

Only when the teenagers were a few feet away did he realise how much taller they were and how heavy his limbs suddenly felt and exhausted his brain was. He reprimanded himself so more for such an emotionally based decision as they suddenly gained back their courage and ran at him. Sherlock manipulated their strength against them, dodging out-of-the-way and feeding off their attempts at punches. The boys faltered in uncertainty, not use to someone fighting although Sherlock wasn't actually fighting.

Their wild swings fell through and some looked to their leader for direction.

'Look,' Sherlock began again, not wanting the situation to develop any further. 'You can either clear off now or I get the police to put out a warrant for each of you for drug trafficking.' Probably not the best thing to say as their first lesson as street-kids was kill or be killed.

Suddenly one of the boys produced a pipe or something similar, swinging it into Sherlock who only managed to get partly out-of-the-way. He fell back against a group of dumped rubbish, his head connecting with the brick wall with a loud thwack. Once on the ground he was in trouble, god, he was too exhausted for this.

Sherlock had now traded places with that bloody dog as he was repeatedly kicked by all seven boys, making sure to keep him down. For half-starved, drugged up boys they produced pretty accurate and powerful kicks. _Well they have done this sort of thing for a while._

The leader produced a knife, reinstating his power in the group. The glint of the metal sent a cold stab of fear in Sherlock's chest. Not to mention how contaminated it probably was, the last thing he needed was an infected stab wound. _All for that dog, _he mocked himself. _All for that pathetic, miserable animal-_

There was suddenly blood and screaming as said pup latched onto the knife wielding hand inches from Sherlock's face. The boy shouted in horror as his life-long phobia was coming true as the pup ripped deeper into the exposed flesh of the hand. The other boys backed off, watching on; offering no help.

Sherlock was stumbling to his feet in a matter of seconds, finally reverting to the unloaded hand gun from beneath his hoodie. They dog had let go as the boy dropped the knife. The German Sheppard now stood tall, growing deeply at its group of previous attackers; threatening a similar revenge.

The teens' hands rose at the sight of the gun which Sherlock flicked in a dismissive motion. The boys didn't need a second warning and raced off down onto the street and continued to run, their leader struggling at the back of the pack.

Sherlock dropped the gun and fell back against the brick wall, sliding down painfully until he reached the ground, breathing heavily, arms wrapped around his burning torso. He focused on the pain, as a punishment for such a stupid act.

The pup was watching him curiously and Sherlock would have glared at it had his eyes not been scrunched up in pain.

An hour later after slipping in and out of consciousness, he finally managed to wobble to his feet and stumble down the alley-ways, the dog got up and began to annoyingly follow, it still bloody does.

* * *

_Please come_

_Shit! _Molly thought as she scrawled through the dozen messages from Sherlock, one of them being an address in the middle of London.

Molly had been working and only just got the chance to check her mobile. She quickly collected everything and got down to her car.

When she finally arrived at the restaurant through all the traffic and finding a park, she couldn't see Sherlock anywhere. To say Molly was pissed off would be verging on accurate.

_I'm here, _she texted. _Where are you!_

She doubted he would actually be in the restaurant and surprised that he was anywhere near. This was a dangerous place to be for him; there were too many people about, too much of a risk of Sherlock being recognised.

_Round the back, _he eventually replied.

Molly growled in frustration, she was not in the mood to play his games. She walked around to what she hoped was the back of the business. A variation in kinds of trash and boxes were really the only objects filling the space but then she saw him, sitting on steps that lead up to a back door. Molly cautiously moved closer, 'Sherlock?' She queried again but didn't get a step further as a fairly tall dog sprang forward from the shadows, growling with teeth bared and hackles raised. It crouched in front of Sherlock as if protecting the man but that's ridiculous, Sherlock doesn't do pets.

'It's alright.' Sherlock finally croaked, confirming that he was actually conscious. The young dog broke its tough demeanour and looked back at Sherlock then to Molly again, uncertain. Eventually it stalked back to Sherlock's feet and crouched down, eyes locked on Molly and ready to defend again at any moment.

'Sorry,' Sherlock replied, shifting slightly where he sat on the concrete steps and pulling his jacket closer around himself. 'Apparently feeding it only makes her _more _loyal.'

Molly wasn't sure if it was meant to be funny but she wasn't in a laughing mood. This was all so strange, different to any other meeting they'd had so far, even when he surprised her by showing up at the lab in Bart's.

'Are you alright?' She asked straight to the point, noticing the glint of a bloody cut alone Sherlock's brow as he shifted again into the light. Molly also noticed his split lip but could sense there was something much worse. For an answer, Sherlock stiffly peeled back his jacket to reveal a dark patch on his thin shirt underneath.

_Blood _Molly instantly realised.

'It's just-' Sherlock looked ashamed and upset, hating how he always had to impose on Molly for help.

'It's okay,' she said stopping him and slowly easing closer. 'Is it really bad? Do you actually need to go to hospital for once?'

Sherlock instantly shook his head, 'No.' He didn't sound to certain though.

'Well I'll see about that.' She was being firm, but with Sherlock in dire straits like this she had learned she needed to be. He wasn't always the best judgement when it came to his own health and safety and Molly now knew what he really required from her was to call the shots. Insist he wasn't at all fine and make sure everything possible was done about it. Really, for the past almost three years, Molly was John. Sherlock probably knew this already which would explain why he found so much comfort in her help. She was stable and a constant, no matter where he was in the world or what he was doing, Sherlock knew he could always come back and rely on Molly. He needed her, he always needed her.

Looking closer in what little light was available, Molly could see the situation was a lot more serious than Sherlock was letting on.

_Shit that's a lot of blood. _The patch on his side was glistening and wet. The wound was still open and flowing with Sherlock no longer having the strength to apply pressure to the area. The deep red stain streamed down a trouser leg and had began to collect on the concrete step.

_How long has he been setting there? _Molly felt terrible about not being able to check her phone earlier and been able to come straight away. Instead Sherlock slumped where he sat, breathing unsteadily and clearly terrified in being stranded for god knows how long.

Molly was here now though, and would do what she could to help rectify the situation of Sherlock dying from blood loss.

'Can you stand? Or walk?'

Sherlock shook his head no. God, he could barely do that. Molly was beginning to panic, she didn't know what to do and more and more blood was flowing out of him despite her scarf which she pressed to the wound. He was white as snow and half dead; lord knows how long he had staggered around in this state until he just couldn't anymore. The pup whined in concern.

'Sherlock, you're going to have to use that massive brain of yours and help me out here. I can't carry you to the car. You've lost a lot of blood Sherlock, and right now we need to act really quickly.' Sherlock groaned and his eyes scrunched up more, either from the pain or trying to think of a plan. Molly hoped it was the latter. She put more pressure on the wound which squelched and ripped a cry out of Sherlock's otherwise tightly closed lips. Molly slapped her blood covered hand over his mouth to silence him, although desperately needing help, the last thing they needed was someone hearing or finding them and calling an ambulance.

_Actually, _Molly desperately thought. _That would be great right now._ But they couldn't. It was just her, Sherlock and the bloody useless pup.

Molly dropped her head onto his quivering shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to concentrate on forming some sort of plan. Sherlock was running out of time and she couldn't even help him.

A movement caught her attention and she leaned back as Sherlock's hand continued to dance around inside her jacket.

'Sherlock! What are you-'

With a sharp distinctive tingle he produced her car keys from her inner jacket pocket. With eyes still closed he dropped them into her hand and slumped forwards into her, still conscious but barely. The pup's whining increased but Molly ignored it as she tried to image her car, measuring it up against the width of the back alley. She grimaced, it would be tight but she _had_ asked for Sherlock's help.

'Okay,' she breathed, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she leant him back against the door. 'But you owe me a new car, a nice one.'

* * *

**The dog is paramount! (no seriously, i need him for the finale) Don't worry, i wont make it lame.**

**Love to hear your thoughts**


	10. Tenth

**Notes:**

**Soon, i will have finished school forever, will get nice long chapters done for both my fics, make all the videos on my lists. Watch all the sherlock's over and over and have no homework or obligations until uni starts in March. *sigh*. **

**Until then, i got this done for you guys, it was meant to have another part but now that just means more chapters. YAY! =)**

**Beginning of the request that will lead up to the ending.**

**But first, amazed and relieved on everyone loving the dog. Yay! Cause its here to stay!**

**Thanks to all you awesome people who favd/alerted and such: **PertPeeve, hildal, lifesrace, lady555, Shaida01, CorpseGrl, Crimson and Chrome 42, Renaissancebooklover108, candy-girl5, digitalflute, Cuckoo's Nest, Hyadum, Tsume-en-Force, angharabbit, truelondoner123, Novella91, Cyrina **and **megsterleigh

**And to all those SUPER-amazing people who left me such wonderful reviews!: **Irene90, Guest **(i thought long and hard about the dog's name, and thought this would be really funny and sherlock-like. Hope you agree ;) ), **AdaYuki, MorbidbyDefault **(Gladestone was my default, default. Think i came up with something both humorous and sherlock-like though. Hope you agree :) ), **booknerdhere, LadyK1138, SammyKatz, Catie501 **(this ones blood loss! And again, thanks so much for your wonderful support!), **lifesrace **(again, thank you so so much. Guilty pleasure? What about me? I'm the ones who think and write them. hehe! I was sick of reading others and wanted to do my own ;) ), **Guest **(not Johnlock, sorry :( ), **Brightpath2, Renaissancebooklover108, piper (Guest) **(thank you so much for reading and reviewing! And so much for such fantastic comments! And yes, he is defiantly stuck with the dog :) ), **candy-girl5 **and **megsterleigh

* * *

X.

Molly's small car fitted with ease as rubbish trucks _had _to visit the alleyway full of bins behind the major restaurants and such of London.

The car door opened just enough of a gap for a Sherlock to crawl and haul himself up onto the back seat. The dog leaped in afterwards, laying alongside and resting its head on the hand of its master that kept a pathetic amount of pressure on the wound.

_Oh come on! It can't be that smart!_, Molly thought. But said stupid dog blinked to look at her with deep-brown expectant eyes as if to say; "what are you waiting for woman? Drive!"

Molly quickly turned back around in her seat and immediately shot out of the alley, a vague idea of where to go and what to do as an unconscious Sherlock lay bleeding out in the back seat of her otherwise pristine car, _God damn it Sherlock!_

* * *

Sherlock managed to open his eyes briefly as the car came to a stop and an obnoxious beeping noise sounded as the door opened and shut with the engine still running.

They were at Bart's. Sherlock knew this because lying down on the back seat of the car gave him a mockingly clear view of the building. He knew the particular part well, could almost feel the muscle memory of standing on the edge of its rooftop, the horrible gut-wrenching sensation of falling. Sherlock didn't have the energy to fight the tears that began to grow and slowly trace down his cheeks.

_Oh John, look what I've done._

Sherlock heard a whine emanate from the soft head on his hand, giving an uncomfortable pressure where it was need most on his abdomen. _Good girl, _he tried to say but it only got as far as a tired thought.

Sherlock knew he was dying this time and immediately felt horribly guilty about Molly, how upsetting it will be for her to return to a bleed-dry body in her car and the absolute panic of what to do next.

Three wasted years of not-John for no reason anyway. Sherlock screamed at his body to stop being so selfish. _Don't you dare! You need to get back to John and show him it's all okay and you're sorry but it was for him and the others. Die now and you die for nothing. Stay alive! Stay alive, stay alive, stayin' alive..._Damn.

Moriarty would never let him go, would forever be there waiting for him to slip, mocking him.

Once more Sherlock found himself fighting death, once more for John and those he loved. Once more for Molly.

* * *

The bags of blood Molly had admittedly stolen from Bart's sat in a cooler in her fridge. The one she had already got into Sherlock on the way back to her flat had just caught him from death.

Molly all but dragged him up the front steps, apologising the whole way. Eventually they made it to her bathroom and Molly quickly removed his opened coat and pulled off the blood soaked shirt. He was out cold and didn't give a flinch as she slowly peeled off the last-minute padding she had placed on the wound when getting the bag of blood into him outside of Bart's.

Grabbing the emergency kit that now lived in Molly's bathroom, she disinfected her hands, pulled on gloves and grabbed a medical torch, shinning it across the gaping slash in Sherlock's side.

'Damn,' she whispered quietly when noticing the abnormal glint within the blood, she had suspected as much.

Molly took slow, calming breaths as she gathered the tools she needed, reminding herself to not panic and rush. Besides, she had done this sort of medical procedure an un-countable number of times in her career, just...never on a live patient.

Washing and dabbing the blood out-of-the-way, Molly shifted her position slightly and slipped the medical tweezers and prongs into the wound, Sherlock's eyes didn't open but his back arched up as he let out a hoarse cry of pain. Molly stopped herself from apologising profusely, instead maintaining her concentration on removing the first shard of glass from the abdomen wound. Sherlock gave little high-pitched whimpers of protests as his bloodied hands weakly tried to remove hers.

'It's okay Sherlock, it's me, it's me. I have to get the glass out and I'm sorry but it is going to hurt.'

'No', he gasped feebly but it turned into another yell as Molly slipped out another shard, this one larger as she placed it aside, continuing the mantra of washing and dabbing.

Working efficiently, Molly removed sixteen shards of glass from Sherlock's head and abdomen combined. It had taken fifteen minutes, during which Molly had bit her tongue as Sherlock's cries grew weaker and weaker until the all but stopped as he fell unconscious once more.

After suturing the gashes, Molly carefully dragged him to the couch, thankful for once on how dangerously light he was, but still just too heavy.

Everything turned into a blur as Molly hooked up an IV bag and more blood, remembering at the last-minute to let the dog in from outside. It padded quietly over to the couch were Sherlock lay and sat, keeping its head on the cushion near its master's shoulder.

Molly was far too tired and told herself she couldn't do anything more for Sherlock, just glad he was alive as she stumbled to bed and fell unconscious in her blankets that still smelled of Sherlock from the last time he had slept there.

It wasn't until mid-morning the next day that Molly woke up, feeling both exhausted and revived at the same time. She padded out to the lounge, expecting Sherlock to be gone for some reason, but he was there, laid out boneless on her couch, hooked up to the almost empty bags and breathing soundly. The dog lay beside the couch on the floor, always guarding.

'Hello,' Molly said to the animal begrudgingly wondering what on earth could have possessed Sherlock to pick up a ruddy dog. If he expected her to look after it, he had another thing coming. A second later Toby lifted his head out from beside the hound, squished contently between dog and couch.

Molly glared at both animals, particularly her cat, 'Traitor.'

Toby's ear gave a flick and the dogs' tail thumped a few beats out on the floor.

After taking care of the detective and getting ready for her day, moving to the kitchen Molly found the post it pad, ripping off an old note from Sherlock and taking the yellow notepad to the coffee table. She wrote a note to Sherlock, explaining she was shopping if he happened to wake up at all while she was out. Reminding him not to try and do anything and to go back to sleep.

Molly sighed, feeling slightly _was _going shopping, but she had originally made plans a month ago to see her brother in the city and decided while in the shower that she was still going to go as during the past three years, Molly had learnt that an unconscious Sherlock on her couch should not reconstruct her whole week.

With a meaningful warning point of her finger at annoying best friends dog and cat, Molly headed out the door with one last look to the sleeping detective; a reoccurring situation that had become relatively normal in Molly's life, although admittedly not in the context she had originally imagined.

When arriving home, Molly found the yellow post-it notepad resting on unconscious Sherlock's stomach under one hand, the other with pen still lose in grip and half curled in the sleeping German Sheperd's fur.

Slipping out the notepad from his elegant and long fingers, Molly smiled as she played out the flick-book Sherlock had drawn on each page. Molly took it to her room, placing it in her bedside draw where it would be safe. She would come to the habit of bringing it out now and then for years to come, the small cartoon of the running dog always making her smile.

Between glancing from the television to Sherlock, down to her chopping board and back to Sherlock again, he had woken up and was contently running his fingers along the length of one of the German Sheperd's ear. The absolute pleasure on the dogs face, coupled with the small smile and brightness in Sherlock's eyes almost made Molly forgive the half-grown puppy immediately.

She would not be jealous of a dog and the small chuckle it produced from Sherlock when he stopped his stroking and it nudged his hand for more, "_I didn't say stop". _As Sherlock brought both hands forward to roughly rub the dog's head with mock anger, his mouth transformed into that rare smile that Molly had only on occasion had been privileged enough to witness witnessed; the one that lopped his lips and scrunched his nose in a slightly child-like way.

Sherlock caught her starring and Molly quickly diverted her gaze back to the chopping board, she had a vague memory of attempting to cut spring onions.

'Molly?'

She looked back up to him, his smile gone, replaced instead by drawn eyebrows and serious eyes that glistened with unshed tears. 'Your astounding, thank you.'

She felt herself blush and looked to the dog with a superior face, _beat that._ The dog seemed to huff.

In the end they had scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. Sherlock managed half of his before giving the rest to the pup who wolfed down the remainder. Molly was frustrated she didn't mind, she never imagined herself being a dog person, but the pup had grown on her in alarming amounts over the course of the night.

Molly was situated beneath Sherlock's feet at the end of her couch, massaging lightly as she flicked from channel to channel. The pup had settled back down after being let outside for an hour and was now happy to leave Sherlock under Molly's care as it dozed across the lounge.

'What's its name?' Molly asked a tranced Sherlock from the ministrations on his feet.

'Hmmm?'

Molly choked back a giggle, taking note of the pathetic state of Sherlock from a simple foot massage. 'The German Sheperd. Please tell me it has a name.'

Sherlock cracked open an eye, looking from Molly to pup and closing it again, 'Dog.'

Molly laughed which caused Sherlock to open his eyes and frown as if he had said "Princess" or something similarly ridiculous.

Molly tugged his toe mockingly, 'No, seriously Sherlock. What's its name?'

He continued to look at her without an ounce of humour. 'I just told you; dog.'

Molly now frowned, 'Dog?'

He gave an exaggerated huff.

'But it's a girl.' She protested.

'So?'

Molly was stunned, not sure what to say other than, _But it's a girl! You can't just call it..._Looking over to it; the animal was watching the two intently, almost with an annoyed expression about why they were saying its name repeatedly.

Molly sighed, leaning back against the couch and moving on to massage Sherlock's other foot; she couldn't even remember starting the first. 'That's not the name you give to dogs Sherlock, especially a lady.'

'It is if it's my dog.' He finished simply, and the more Molly thought about it, the more it actually made sense

* * *

**Love to hear your thoughts!**

**Hope you all enjoyed that and see the humour in Sherlock calling the dog dog as i do :)**

**I really think you all like what i have coming up for you guys. Don't know how long the wait will be, but us Sherlockians are pretty good with waiting...**


	11. IMPORTANT AUTHORS NOTE

**Due to my need to have a good future, STORIES POSTPONED until AFTER the 8TH of NOVEMBER when all my schooling and exams are done. Sorry guys. I was hoping to have the stories finished before but it didn't happen. But we're the fandom that waited and i would very much appreciate it if you can be patient with me and wait a little longer.**

**Real life is a lot more real then fanfiction (unfortunately) and this part of my life is 12 years in the making.**

**Wish me luck! (especially for my monologue performance) and thank you! =)**

**-SWB**


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